Speak, meddler, then, in plain, unvarnished guise; No subterfuge employ; deal not in lies. The veil tear off, dissimulation lost: “When unadorned, beauty’s adorned the most.” Should my sweet love unveil’d her charms display, Thy smirks and smiles would all be borne away. Thy suit prefer; use moderation still: A blade of grass ne’er overturns a hill. The sun that lights and warms this nether world, If brought too near, had all to ruin hurled. 110 Seek not to sow dissension in the earth; Vaunt not the Sun of Tebrīz’[65] holy birth. Contention’s never-ending. Better far, Commit to memory this wordy war. The guest, convinced that love had caused her ill, Proceeded next the prince’s mind to still. “These chambers clear of every mortal soul; Leave me alone the patient to control. No prying ear may linger in the hall; I’ve things to ask may not be heard by all.” 115 The place was cleared; no soul remained within, Save leech and patient; other, none was seen. In gentlest tones he asked: “Where was thy home? For each town’s folk a different cure must come. What friends, what family hast left behind,— Companions, playmates, who to thee were kind?” On pulse his finger. He then, one by one, Inquired anew each point, omitting none. So he whose foot is wounded with a thorn, Upon his knee doth take the limb that’s torn. 120 With needle’s point he seeks the intrusive dart; Not finding it, from lip he soothes the smart. If thorn in foot is thus a task to find, Judge what must be a rankling pang of mind. Could every chance observer spy those ills, Where’d be the cankering care, the grief that kills? Boys place a thorn beneath an ass’s tail; The cure Ned knows not; jumping’s no avail. Whisking’s still worse; it deeper drives the dart. ’Tis reason’s task to ease the burning smart. 125 The ass, if sharper grow the throbs and pains, Kicks, plunges, rolls, his hide with gore bestains. Our doctor’s mind, by art full well prepared, With gentle measures sought the ill he feared. Once more, with tact, he bids fresh memories come, And leads the maid again to talk of home. The spring once tapped, the stream began to flow; She told th’ inquirer much he wished to know. He lends his ear as she each scene displays; His finger notes her pulse, as on she strays; 130 To learn if any name should raise a start, And thus betray the secret of her heart. Anew he mentions every friend, each place; Repeated such as gave of hope a trace. He asked: “On quitting, thou, thy native town, Where first was it thy guardians set thee down?”