The Nightingale replied: “O kindly one, See what I am, and do not question me. I am enamored of a pictured face; And there are many thousands such as I; I am a beggar, and my love a queen. I am all destitute, but she is rich; She is with beauty radiant as the sun, And I am duskier than a sunbeam’s mote. In beauty’s garden does she bloom a Rose, And I am naught but the poor Nightingale. I by no name am known, but she speaks out, And by her very graces names herself.” So spoke the Nightingale, and down he fell, With dolorous cries of grief and notes of woe. Then he began a song of love forlorn, With trills and runs of a many a circling tone. “And love,” he said, “intoxicates my sense, Through ardent longing for that ruby mouth. The lightning flash of love that struck my heart, Laid ruin in the chambers of my breast. The heart’s endurance can no longer stand, It has been worn away by pangs of love. For love to ashes has reduced my life; Love only leaves to me the power of song; And love has filled my inmost heart with fire, ’Tis love that draws the sweat-drops of the heart, For love has banished me from house and home; My soul in sickness languishes through love. And love has wearied out my tuneful throat; The secrets of my soul hath love betrayed. The torch of love has fallen upon my heart, My soul is set on fire by force of love; For love has taken my heart to be its friend; But like a halter is this love to me. I am become a laughing-stock through Love, And love has set my name among the fools.” Now as these accents by his friend were heard, His heart with tender sympathy was touched. His heart with generous indignation burned, And to the pain of fierce desire he woke. He said: “Poor wretch, inebriate of love, Afflict thyself no more, for God is kind. For happier fortune has he destined thee, For it was he who gave thy love her charm; Thy breath of music penetrates my soul, And I will straight conduct thee to the Rose. Gaze once upon her beauty e’er thou die; And in her joys thine ardent passion breathe.” The Nightingale was gladdened by these words And joy that moment lighted up his mind, “O sir,” he said, “is this but sleep and dream? The fragrance of fruition hits my sense. Thou who has given me bliss, be happy thou, And fortunate in either universe. Thou who dost help me to my dearest wish, May all thy purpose lead to happiness. The best loved news dost thou convey to me; For guerdon, thou may’st take my very soul. I give to thee my soul, I give my life, O bring me to the jewel of my love.”