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How many a bidder unto love, a secret-craving wight, How many a swain, complaining, saith of destiny malign,
“How many a cup with bitterness o’erflowing have I quaffed! I make my moan of woes, whereat it boots not to repine.”
Quoth thou, “The goodliest of things is patience and its use: Its practice still mankind doth guide to all that’s fair and fine.”
Wherefore fair patience look thou use, for sure ’tis praiseworthy; Yea, and its issues evermore are blesséd and benign;
And hope thou not for aught from me, who reck not with a folk To mix, who may with abjectness infect my royal line.
This is my saying; apprehend its purport, then, and know I may in no wise yield consent to that thou dost opine.
Then he folded the letter and sealing it, delivered it to the damsel, who took it and carried it to her mistress. When the princess read the letter and apprehended its contents, she said, “Meseemeth he recalleth to me that which I did aforetime.” Then she called for inkhorn and paper and wrote the following verses:
Me, till I stricken was therewith, to love thou didst excite, And with estrangement now, alas! heap’st sorrows on my spright.
The sweet of slumber after thee I have forsworn; indeed The loss of thee hath smitten me with trouble and affright.
How long shall I, in weariness, for this estrangement pine, What while the spies of severance[1] do watch me all the night?
My royal couch have I forsworn, sequestering myself From all, and have mine eyes forbid the taste of sleep’s delight.
- ↑ i.e. the stars.
