22
A moon is my love, in a robe of loveliness proudly arrayed, And the splendours of new-broken day from his cheeks and his forehead shine clear.
Then the Khalif summoned her to his presence a fourth time and said to her, “O Sitt el Milah, sing.” So she improvised and sang the following verses:
To his belovéd one the lover’s heart’s inclined; His soul’s a captive slave, in sickness’ hands confined.
“What is the taste of love?” quoth one, and I replied, “Sweet water ’tis at first; but torment lurks behind.”
Love’s slave, I keep my troth with them; but, when they vowed, Fate made itself Urcoub,[1] whom never oath could bind.
What is there in the tents? Their burdens are become A lover’s, whose belov’d is in the litters’ shrined.
In every halting-place like Joseph[2] she appears And he in every stead with Jacob’s grief[3] is pined.
When she had made an end of her song, she threw the lute from her hand and wept till she swooned away. So they sprinkled on her rose-water, mingled with musk, and willow-flower water; and when she came to herself, Er Reshid said to her, “O Sitt el Milah, this is not fair dealing in thee. We love thee and thou lovest another.” “O Commander of the Faithful,” answered she, “there is no help for it.” Therewithal he was wroth with her
