I Desire The Door-Sill Of My Beloved More Than A King'S House; I Desire The Shadow Of The Wall Where Her Beauty Hides More Than The Delhi Palaces. Why Did You Wait Till Spring; Were Not My Hands Already Full Of Red-Thorned Roses? My Heart Is Yours, So That I Know Not Which Heart I Hear Sighing: Yaquin, Yaquin, Yaquin, Foolish Yaquin. From The Hindustani Of Yaquin (Eighteenth Century).