Under poet's fingers, fast and thin,
Strings were fluttering with easy, gentle sound,
Strings were golden, as the bands, around
Wrists of glum and unrestricted Queen.

Calls of passion made the air drunk,
And the summer lightning was in hurry…
Not in vain, ranged those armlets, starry,
On the wrists of Mistress, pale and blank.

And the looks were burning not in vain:
Sovereign satisfied with Slave desire,
Halls were decorated with a lyre,
Hangmen tore the poet's eyes away.