Chapter III: Story of the Beggar's Son and the King's Son

I have heard that the son of a beggar, one time,Fell in love with the son of a monarch sublime.He went and encouraged a passion insane ;Fancy made him believe that his wish he would gain.He always remained, like a post, on his course—Like the elephant, always alongside the horse.His heart became blood and the secret there lay,Yet his feet, from his weeping, remained in the clay.The attendants discovered the cause of his pain,And said to him, " Wander not hither again !"For a moment he went, but the thought of his faceMade him settle again near his friend's dwelling place.A slave smashed his head and his feet and his hands,Saying, " Did we not warn you away from these lands?"He departed, with patience and rest at an end ;No endurance, away from the face of his friend.Like flies from the sugar, they drove him by force,But he quickly reverted again to his course.One addressed him: " Oh rashling ! with reason astray,'Neath the rod and the stone you much patience display !""At his hand," he replied, "I this harshness sustain ;At the hand of a friend it is wrong to complain.The spirit of friendship I breathe, you must know,Whether, me, he accepts as a friend, or a foe.When away from him, ask not for patience of mind !For even when with him, no rest can I find.No strength to be patient; no strife-ground have I;No pow'r to remain and no courage to fly.Do not say, 'Move your head from this Court-door of hope,'Though he pull at my head, like a peg in a rope!Is the moth not—who gives to his mistress life's spark—Better off, than alive in his own nook so dark ?"He asked, "If a wound from his club you should meet ?"He replied, " I will drop like a ball at his feet."He said, " Should he cut off your head with a sword?"He replied, "Even that, I will freely afford.If a man has a sweetheart, beloved in his eyes,He's not vexed at each trifle that happens to rise.Regarding my head, I am ignorant, quite,Whether on it a crown or a hatchet may light.At me, without patience, reproaches don't fling !For patience in love's an impossible thing.If, like Jacob's, my eyes become whiten'd and blind,To see Joseph, the hope will not pass from my mind."I have heard that the youth kissed his stirrup, one day ;He was angry and twisted the reins from his way.He said, smiling, " From twisting your reins round, desist !For the king, without reason, his reins does not twist.While near you, I am of existence bereft ;In thinking of you, no self worship is left.If you see in me crime, do not blame on me bring !Your own head, you have caused from my collar to spring !Hence, boldly, my hand to your stirrup I brought,For I reckoned myself in the matter as nought.I have taken the pen and erased my own name ;I have planted my feet on my own ardent flame.I am killed by the glance of that love-kindling eye ;What need, then, to flourish your sabre on high?"Set fire to the reeds, and then go from the ground!For nor withered nor moist, in the forest, is found.