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Yet him, whose cure is in thy hand, Affliction shall for ever claim,
Thy glances set my heart on fire, Slay me with swords of my desire:
How many, truly, of the best Have fallen beneath Love’s sword of flame?
Yet may I not from passion cease Nor in forgetting seek release;
For love’s my comfort, pride and law, Public and private, aye the same.
Blest eyes that have of thee their fill And look upon thee at their will!
Ay, of my own unforced intent, The slave of passion I became.
When the portress heard this foursome song, she cried out, ‘Alas! Alas! Alas!’ and tore her clothes and fell down in a swoon; and the Khalif saw on her body the marks of beating with rods and whips, and wondered greatly. Then the cateress rose and sprinkled water upon her and brought her a fresh dress and put it on her. When the company saw this, their minds were troubled, for they understood not the reason of these things. And the Khalif said to Jaafer, ‘Didst thou not see the marks of beating with rods upon the girl’s body! I cannot keep silence nor be at rest, except I come at the truth of all this and know the story of this damsel and the two bitches.’ ‘O my lord,’ answered Jaafer, ‘they made it a condition with us that we should not speak of what concerns us not, under pain of hearing what should not please us.’ Then said the portress, ‘By Allah! O my sister, come and complete thy service to me.’ ‘With all my heart!’ answered the cateress and took the lute and leant it against her breasts. Then she swept the strings with her finger-tips and sang the following verses:
If we complain of absence, what alas! shall we say? Or if longing assail us, where shall we take our way?
If, to interpret for us, we trust to a messenger, How can a message rightly a lover’s plaint convey?
Or if we put on patience, short is a lover’s life, After his heart’s belovéd is torn from him away.
Nothing, alas! is left me but sorrow and despair And tears that adown my cheeks without cessation stray.
