"With the worthless fellow unite not, for he makes known the deepest secret. Speak no secret words in bad spots, for thy deep hidden mystery will become known. Better is the bare leaf than the faded rose. Better is dry earth than worthless grass. Better is a staff than a stupid fellow-traveller. For he makes known the direction of thy route to the foe. Do not instruct the fool, because he will, nevertheless, reach the grave of misery unconsciously. When you enter at a good-for-nothing fellow's as a guest, he attacks you like the little cur, and makes his vice known. Would that I could give you the picture of a true hero! He draws his sword only for the destruction of the unbelievers. Do not march against the enemy with a coward, since he makes known the trodden track as well as his own path. Yusuf Beg says, 'Such a time is come. This home-land is for us no longer. Fools know not their own lair; they speak angrily, and make their evil speech known.'" They march away. The report of their heroic deeds spreads far and wide, and naturally reaches their home-land. Here governed only petty princes, each of whom would take renowned warriors into his service. The usual career of warfare proceeds, and Yusuf takes the command, but only with the consent of his comrades. They draw out afresh for an expedition against Guzel Shah, the Governor of Isfahan. The Œzbegs are overpowered by Persian cunning. Both princes are taken and dragged in chains to Iran. This misfortune rouses deep cries from the heart of Yusuf, and as he could not turn for sympathy to his captors, he pours forth his wail to the lofty hills that surround him, and exclaims:-- "Ye snow-bedecked, many coloured hills, what has befallen me; have you seen it? I am become the slave of these unbelievers; my tarrying behind, have you seen it? No one pities my tears, the hills only throb at my tears. With lashes around my head, how must I have stepped along the way; have you seen it? Heedless were my attendants. Ah! I weep tears of blood! How captured with Ahmed Beg came I here, have you seen it? I drink blood,--in this world too heavy is my sorrow! Walking on foot, unbelievers on steeds; have you seen it? Yusuf Beg says, 'I am inwardly consumed, my sorrow is endless. Dragged with these bound hands at a horse's pleasure, have you seen me?'"