А вот неизвестный средневековый автор завидует на гэлике книге, которую читает возлюбленная: отчего, отчего в ее руках эта книга, а не автор стиха! Delightful, o book, your trip to the young girl of the wavy hair; pity it’s not you in pain in my stead And me going there. O small book, delightful for you travelling to where my love is; the shining mouth red as blood you’ll see, and also the white smile. You will see the grey eyes, you’ll see the tender hand; You will be, but not me, alas! side by side with the bright flower. You will see the slender eyebrow and the perfect neck’s gentle gleam, and the glistening cheek like an ember I saw in a dream last night. The snow-like safe and slender waist which I loved senselessly, the finger-bright neat white foot you will see them, full of beauty. The soft peaceful melodious voice which in every song made me pain you will hear, and you will delight; O would that lot were mine!