O night, O my sleepless yearning for Heliodora, O the sharp kisses and tears at hateful dawn, does any trace of my love remain with her, any remembered kiss warm her cold thoughts? Does she remember my tears in her bed? Does she clasp to her breast and kiss a heart-deluding dream shape of me?
Or has she a new love, new caresses?
O lamp, may you never look on such a thing, but be the guardian of her I have committed to you.

JIHAN BANU (LADY WORLD)

She whom they call Jih a n's a damsel moon-faced,
Who, like the World , is faithless, and doth hearts waste.
Save faithlessness, though comes not from the World aught;
The heart from that love of the soul can pass not.
Let but her mind contented be with poor me,
Then may the World divorced from me for aye be.

SACHLI ZEMAN (FORTUNE THE LONG-HAIRED)

Zem a n the Long-haired, 'midst these lovely ones see,
A wayward, wanton Torment of the world she.
Like Fortune , she nor clemency nor grace knows;
The number of her hairs her lovers' tale shows.
The tribute from the realm of hearts her curls bore,
Seduced me have these locks that hang her neck o'er.

Thou still wert wont, in earnest or in jest,
To praise an ass as a most worthy beast.
Now like an ass thyself thou still commendest,
Whats'e'er thou speak'st, with thine own praise thou endest.
Oh! I perceive thou praisest learnedly,
An ass in Thesi and Hippothesi .

If thou be fair, thy beauties beautify
With virtuous deeds and manners answerable:
If thou be foul, thy beauty's want supply,
With a fair mind and actions commendable.

Her sons rich Aula terms her lechers all,
Whom other dames, loves, friends, and servants call.
And sure methinks her wit
Gives them a name more fit;
For if all mothers them their sons do call,
Whom they have only borne nine months in all;
May she not call them sons with better reason,
Whom she hath borne nine times as long a season?

Whosoever saith thou sellest all, doth jest:
Thou buy'st thy beauty, that sells all the rest.

He that will thrive in court, must oft become,
Against his will, both blind, and deaf, and dumb.

Youth, beauty, strength, the trophy, and the bust,
Not these his honours to the Tomb we trust;
But modest manners, innocent of art,
The open nature, and the moral heart.
Such love of truth as ancient Britains bore,
Such fortitude, as never Roman more:
And call'd betimes, his task of glory done,
To mix with nature's social as his own.

Who has copied for me the sweet-voiced hetaira, Zenophile? Who has brought me this Grace from among the Three?
His was a gracious deed, to give me a Grace, a gift full of grace!