O word-conjoining sorcerer have done! How long, how long will you speak bygone words*⁷²²?

Like to the rose breathe out from your own mouth; enough that your own mouth perfume your work.

E’en at the first my covenant was made—with whom?—with Him whose covenants are true

That what a certain other bard had said*⁷²³—I still drink wine, but he has gone to sleep*⁷²⁴—

I would not make (such) thought of his my own: ill-doing I’d not make my attribute*⁷²⁵.

So far as may be, like the vernal breeze, my claim shall not be patching up old things*⁷²⁶.

Still, to the treasury when one the road—the target one, although the arrows two*⁷²⁷—

Though in the art of boring pearls*⁷²⁸ I’ve bound myself not to repeat what has been said*⁷²⁹,

When repetition I can not avoid, I can produce fine silk from woollen stuff*⁷³⁰.

Two workers*⁷³¹ by the alchemy of speech have turned old metal into something new*⁷³²:

That one has made from copper silver pure, and from the silver this one makes pure gold*⁷³³.

Since you’ve seen copper to fine silver turned*⁷³⁴, be not surprised if silver turns to gold.