had played him this trick. And he groaned and wept and lamented and again shed tears, repeating these couplets,
"O Love thou'rt instant in thy cruellest guise; * Here is my
heart 'twixt fears and miseries:
Pity, O lords, a thrall who, felled on way * Of Love, erst
wealthy now a beggar lies:
What profits archer's art if, when the foe * Draw near, his
bowstring snap ere arrow {lies:
And when griefs multiply on generous man * And urge, what fort
can fend from destinies?
How much and much I warded parting, but * 'When Destiny descends
she blinds our eyes?'"
And when he had ended his verse, he sobbed with loud sobs and repeated also these couplets,
"Enrobes with honour sands of camp her foot step wandering lone,
* Pines the poor mourner as she wins the stead where wont to
wane
She turns to resting-place of tribe, and yearns thereon to view *
The spring-camp lying desolate with ruins overstrown
She stands and questions of the site, but with the tongue of case
* The mount replies, 'There is no path that leads to union,
none!
'Tis as the lightning flash erewhile bright glittered o'er the
camp * And died in darkling air no more to be for ever
shown.'"
And he repented when repentance availed him naught, and wept and rent his raiment. Then he hent in hand two stones and went round about the city, beating his breast with the stones and crying "O Zumurrud!" whilst the small boys flocked round him, calling out, "A madman! A madman!" and all who knew him wept for him, saying, "This is such an one: what evil hath befallen him?" Thus he continued doing all that day and, when night darkened on him, he lay down in one of the city lanes and sleet till morning On the morrow, he went round about town with the stones till eventide, when he returned to his saloon to pass therein the night. Presently, one of his neighbours saw him, and this worthy old woman said to him, "O my son, Heaven give thee healing! How long hast thou been mad?" And he answered her with these two couplets,[1]
- ↑ This tetrastich has occurred before (Night cxciii.). I quote Lane (ii. 449), who quotes Dryden's Spanish Friar,
"There is a pleasure sure in being mad
Which none but madmen know."
