Out of all the world I choose you alone; do you deem it right for me to sit sorrowful?
My heart is like a pen in your hand; through you it is, whether I am glad or grieve.
What shall I be other than what you wish? What shall I see except what you show?
Now you cause thorns to grow from me, now roses; now I smell roses, now I pluck thorns.
Since you keep me so, I am so—since you wish me so, I am so.
In that vat where you dispense dye to the heart, what should I be? What my love and hate?
You were the first, and you will be the last; do you make my last better than my first.
When you are hidden, I am of the infidels; when you appear, I am of the faithful.
What do I possess other than the thing you have given? What are you searching for in my pocket and sleeve?
