My tongue keeps complaining against the creator of pain; it seems that I am no longer in my right senses.

In the etiquette of classical love, a true lover never complains about the pain inflicted by the beloved; suffering is embraced as a sacred gift. Here, the poet catches themselves voicing a bitter grievance against the very one who brings them this torment. Startled by this breach of devotion, they conclude that the overwhelming grief must have unhinged their mind, because no sane lover would ever dare to complain about the beloved.