The sot and the seducer of the town. His gore shall tinge my poniard scarlet bright, For I shall plunge it in his dastard blood.” So saying, from his seat out sprang the thorn And drew his dagger in a burst of rage. The very moment he the Bulbul found He dealt him many a wound with flashing blade, And said to him: “Audacious beggar, thou Who knowest neither modesty nor ruth, What brought thee to the harem of our Queen? Think of her rank and of thy base estate, Thou who each night dost shout thy lack-a-day Dost thou not feel some shame? Away with thee, Away with all this hubbub and this cry. Is this a prison, or a lady’s bower? How comes it that without a blush of shame Thou callest o’er and o’er again her name? Show thyself here no longer, beggar vile, Go hide that sottish countenance of thine. Or else without or hinderance or delay I with my dagger will thy bosom cleave.” With that the thorn transfixed the Nightingale, Giving him pangs of sufferings manifold. And now the Nightingale with cries of pain And thousand lamentations leaves the grove. He left the grove, the rose garden of love, And sang his sorrow to the break of morn. XXXV THE RUTHLESS THORN GIVES ADVICE TO THE SOFT-CHEEKED ROSE The thorn, his thoughts on hate and vengeance fixed, Soon as he had outraged the Nightingale Went straightway hurriedly to see the Rose, And gave her counsel in a long address. And said to her, “How did it happen, Rose, That such an oaf could make his love to thee, And that the very lowest of the low By his addresses could affront thy name? Thou art the pearl, the princess. Can it be A nameless beggar should draw nigh to thee? That night and day by his persistent song He causes all the grove to prate of thee? Is it that thou his daring would approve And smilest on his ardor and desires, And givest ear to such a rogue as this And listenest to the words he says to thee, So that the beggar in thy favor proud Shameless inflates himself and boasts his crime? He is a man of boundless arrogance, And of audacity untamable. Do not encourage him, my gracious queen. The beggar knows the truth about himself. I, with my sword, have pierced his breast with wounds And gladly stretched him bleeding on the ground. And that I did not out of fear for thee, But out of reverence for this pleasant grove.” Soon as the Rose these words of fury heard, Pained to the heart, her rage o’ermastered her. She said: “What has this beggar done to thee, That thou shouldst thus transfix his soul with pain? He is a harmless wretch in dire distress, In sorrow and perplexity involved. He came with all his melodies of love Two days ago a guest in this fair grove. Shame that thou thus hast wronged and injured him!