Again, Then, Doth This Apple

Again, then, doth this apple, thy chin, tooth-marks wear!
Again they've eaten peaches in thine orchard fair!

If strange hands have not reached thee, O rosebud-lipped one,
Doth thy rose-garden's pathway a foot-step print bear!

I cannot reach thee before rivals all throng thee round:
Less for true lover than vile dog dost thou care.

Witness that thou with my rivals the cup drain'dst last night,
Bears the sleepless and worn look thy languid eyes wear.

With whom didst thou last even carouse, that this day
Morn's zephyr about thee did so much news declare?

Beholding thy lips hurt, Âfitâbî hath said:
"Again, then, doth this apple, thy chin, tooth-marks wear!"