My pure orbs laid upon a cold-hearted knave,
Isaac, oh, Isaac;
That the cherubs atop, my scarlet ticker; they laved,
I had fallen quite hard like the cruel ocean waves,
For Isaac, my Isaac;
Though he never glimpsed upon me,
Why, Isaac? Oh, Isaac;
My pure orbs, they have turned into a bitter sea;
Done by Isaac, oh, Isaac;
That knave thieved the joy from me, you see—
God! Isaac, why Isaac?
I wish I never had opened my once pure eyes for Isaac;
Behold of what Isaac had done to me;
My Isaac, oh Isaac;
He had purloined my love and my glee from me;
Oh, Isaac, my Isaac.