Don't fall in sadness, having catched the fault,
There's no any rose, thorns without.
A pure spring by scattred sand is stirred,
And sun or moon is closed by a cloud.
We all are guilty, I am not less than others
And drop sins in every of the bitter lines,
With nice comparisons I try to just them,
Forgiving lawlessly your heavy vice.
As a defender I'm going to court,
Thus serving to the hostile side,
My love and hatred are in inner war
Inside me, and I'm quiet tired.
Though you had plundered me, my dear thief,
I'm sharing with you your sentence and your sin.