Ah, thine eyes lay waste the heart, they 'gainst the soul bare
daggers dread;
See how sanguinary gleam they—blood aye upon blood they
shed.
Come, the picture of thy down bear unto this my scorched
breast—
It is customary fresh greens over the broiled flesh to spread.
Said I: "O Life! since thy lip is life, to me vouchsafe a
kiss."
Smiling rose-like, "Surely, surely, by my life," she answered.
As I weep sore, of my stained eyebrow and my tears of
blood,
"'Tis the rainbow o'er the shower stretched," were by all beholders
said.
While within my heart thine eye's shaft, send not to my
breast despair;
Idol mine! guest after guest must not to one same house be
led.
Through its grieving for thy hyacinth down, thus feeble
grown
Is the basil, that the gardeners nightly o'er it water shed.
Quoth I: "O Life! do not shun Jem, he a pilgrim here
hath come";
"Though a pilgrim, yet his life doth on a child's face hang,"
she said.
—_Prince Jem_ (1481).