DESCRIPTION OF THE NIGHT AND OF THE REPROOF WHICH THE TREACHEROUS HYACINTH GAVE IN ANSWER TO THE POOR NIGHTINGALE It was a night in which the rose garden Was clear illumined as with light of day, When tints of darkness interblent with light Went wandering over beds of hyacinths. The moon stood high upon the dome of heaven, And round her was the company of stars. Upon this night the Nightingale discoursed In dulcet notes the ardor of his soul. He sang at first in his delight and joy His song in every tone the poets knew. Upon this night a hyacinth came by, A vixen full of tricks and treachery. In her dark night attire she forward sped, To wander through the glades of Gulistan. Then suddenly she heard a tuneful note; Like Anka’s echo came the storm of song. Forward she came and saw the pilgrim poor, Who moaned as if he consolation claimed. Close to the minstrel she ensconced herself, And looking up to Bulbul, greeted him. And said to him, “Pray tell to me thy name. Why is it that thou clamorest so loud?” He said, “I call upon the one I love. Through love I did forget how loud I cried.” Quoth she, “To whom has love devoted thee? Who is it that thy heart and spirit love?” Quoth he, “I am the bondsman of my love, For one in love is thrall and pupil too.” Quoth she, “What bond and emblem bearest thou? Whence dost thou come? What is thy native land?” Quoth he, “Love hath no ensign and no home, No special dwelling-place in any realm.” Quoth she, “Explain to me this pain of thine, Tell me the secrets of thy loving heart.” Quoth he, “I have no other guide but love.” And here he stopped and spake no other word. Quoth she, “What is the character of love? And does it bring the lover aught of gain?” Quoth he, “Love brings its slave to nothingness, It forfeits every gain, but wins delight.” Quoth she, “And what is, then, the end of love? Does he who loves find rest his home at last?” Quoth he, “The goal of love is suffering’s lot, The heart through love finds all its end in pain.” Quoth she, “The wise man never longs for pain, More perfect he who shuns disquietude.” Quoth he, “Who suffers not is not a man, For manhood must be based on suffering, And he who suddenly in pain is plunged Befits him then to suffer patiently.” Quoth she, “In pain, then, thou dost take delight, Then cease thy sighs and study self-control.” Quoth he, “And hadst thou medicine for thy pain?” Quoth he, “I need none till my heart be broke.” Quoth she, “And over whom dost thou lament?” Quoth he, “My only one, my darling queen.” Quoth she, “But tell me what her name may be?” Quoth he, “Alas, I have forgot her name.” Quoth she, “Bethink thee, till it come again.” Quoth he, “Do lovers have the power of thought?”