A merchant there was, who a parrot did own; Confined in a cage, wisest bird in the town. This merchant to journeying made up his mind To fair Hindūstān, there some rich wares to find. From generous motives, to each of his slaves, To male, and to female, some gift to bring craves. He made them all tell him what best they would like; And promised to bring it, most gentlemanlike. He said to the parrot: “Poll! Poll! With the rest, From Hind I must bring thee what thou mayst like best.” 5 The parrot replied: “Sure, thou’lt see parrots there, To them pray impart how it is that I fare. Inform them, a parrot who loves them all well, By thee’s kept confined, close shut up in a cell. He sends you his love, and his very best wish; Desiring from you wise advice, parrotish. He fears he may pine, through longing to see His dear absent friends,--die in foreign countree. He asks if it is altogether thing fit, That he should be caged, while you on the trees sit. 10 If this is the way in which true friends should act; Leave him in his cage, while you forests affect. He wishes you’d call to your mind your lost friend, When drinking your bumpers, ere fieldward you wend.[203] ’Tis sweet to be thought of by far-away dame, One’s sweetheart, whose love’s set one’s heart in a flame. While you are disporting with those you love best, He’s eating his heart out; grief gives him no rest. One bumper you’ll drink for the love of poor Poll,[204] If only you wish him your love to extol. 15 Or, thinking of him who’s in slavery kept, Your bowl’s whole contents dash to earth, as though wept. O where is the promise, and where is the oath, Th’ engagements sworn to him by sugarsome tooth?[205] If absence of his came from truancy’s pranks, You’ve set your forgetfulness ’gainst his sin’s ranks. The ills you inflict out of spite and disdain Are sweet to your lover, he does not complain. Your petulance prized is beyond fairy gifts; Your vengeance most dear is; his hope it uplifts. 20 No soul can imagine what pleasure is felt, Or grace seen, in all the fell blows you have dealt. Your wrath is thus sweet; how much more so your grace! If mourning so grieve, what from feast would take place? He weeps; but he hopes you’ll believe not his tears; And, out of affection, not lessen his fears. He loves your great kindness, your anger as well. He equally dotes on those opposites fell. The thorn escape should he, and visit the rose, He’d warble as nightingale, moved by love’s throes. 25 Most wondrous this bird’s strangest use of his bill; With thorns, as with roseleaves, he would his mouth fill. Not nightingale this; fiery dragon it is; All wrongs seem to him, through his love, purest bliss.