'The hapless lover's heart is of his wooing weary grown, * And hand of sickness wasted him till naught but skin and bone Who should be amid the riders which the haltered camels urge, * But that same lover whose beloved cloth in the litters wone: To Allah's charge I leave that moon-like Beauty in your tents * Whom my heart loves, albe my glance on her may ne'er be thrown. Now she is fain; then she is fierce: how sweet her coyness shows; * Yea sweet whatever cloth or saith to lover loved one!'
When I had finished my song she said to me, 'Allah assain thy body and thy voice! Verily, thou art perfect in beauty and good breeding and singing. But now rise and return to thy place, ere the Lady Dunya come back, lest she find thee not and be wroth with thee.' Then I kissed the ground before her an
