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 beloved is torn from him away. Nothing, alas! is left me but sorrow and despair And tears that adown my cheeks without cessation stray. Thou that art ever absent from my desireful sight, Thou that art yet a dweller within my heart alway, Hast thou kept troth, I wonder, with one who loves thee dear, Whose faith, whilst time endureth, never shall know decay? Or hast thou e'en forgotten her who for love of thee, In tears and sickness and passion, hath wasted many a day? Alas! though Love unite us again in one embrace, Reproach for thy past rigour with me full long shall stay. When the portress heard this second song, she gave a loud scream and exclaimed, 'By Allah! it is good!' and putting her hand to her clothes, tore them as before and fell down in a swoon. Whereupon the cateress rose and brought her another dress, after she had sprinkled water on her. Then she sat up again and said to the cateress 'To it again and help me to do the rest of my duty; for there remains but one more song.' So the cateress took the lute and sang the following verses: How long, ah me! shall this rigour last and this inhumanity? Are not the tears that I have shed enough to soften thee? If thou, of thy relentless will, estrangement do prolong, Intending my despite, at last, I pray, contented be! If treacherous fortune were but just to lovers and their woe, They would not watch the weary night in sleepless agony. Have ruth on me, for thy disdain is heavy on my heart; Is it not time that thou relent at last, my king, to me? To whom but thee that slayest me should I reveal my pain? What grief is theirs who love and prove the loved one's perfidy! Love and affliction hour by hour redouble in my breast: The days of exile are prolonged; no end to them I see. Muslims, avenge a slave of love, the host of wakefulness, Whose patience hath been trampled out by passion's tyranny! Can it be lawful, O my wish, that thou another bless With thine embraces, whilst I die, in spite of Love's decree? Yet in thy presence, by my side, what peace should I enjoy, Since he I love doth ever strive to heap despite on me?