He is Ḥakīm ‘Ain-ul-Mulk.* He traces his descent on the mother's side to that most learned man Maulānā Jalāl-ud-dīn Davvānī.* He is distinguished by his gracious manners and excellent qualities, and in the treatment of ophthalmia his equal has not been seen. Occasionally he occupies himself by writing poetry, and the following are some of his verses:—

An ode.

“It is not only hail that rains down from the cloud of grief
on me in my misery.
But stones that rain down upon me in the form of cala-
mities.
So violent towards lovers is that capricious and cruel
charmer,
That even in the course of familiarity warfare gleams in
her eye.
Davā'ī, it is infidelity to despair at the door of her favour,
For rain from the cloud of her generosity covers leagues.”

“Each night my lamentations, sighs, and weeping reach the
sky.
O Lord! What shall one whose days are as dark as mine
do with such nights as these?”

An ode.

“No waste spot is to be seen which cannot be peopled.
The incurable pain of love is that here no plans avail.
In the night of her dark locks the sleep of death fell upon
me,
A wonderful and confused dream not to be interpreted.
Ah, what a glance was that to slay a lover, and where is
the stage on the journey of love
In which is to be found a breast unpierced by an arrow?”

“Each one who has tasted a drop of the wine of love
Has become more wearied than before, and broken both ²³¹
cup and wine-jar.”

“Awake, my heart, for the beloved is enraged,
And life has become hard for lovers.
For lovers, on the way of devotion,
Every step is a hundred thousand leagues.
The spacious arsenal of love
Is all too narrow for the army of my affection.
The arm of my ambition is long enough,
But what shall I do? For my good fortune is lame.
Davā'ī beware, for in the street of the beloved
Strife is hot and love is in disguise.”

“Bright are those eyes which know how to see,
Happy is that heart which knows how to palpitate.
How shall the torment of this narrow cage
Be endured by the bird of my soul, which has learnt how
to soar?
Never remains in the corner of my eye
That little tear which has learnt how to run down my
cheek.
There is not to be found elsewhere in a house
A wild creature which has learnt how to flee.
Davā'ī no longer has any desire for heaven,
Since he has learnt how to pluck the rose of thy garden.”

“On the day of separation, which is the moment when (the
heart) burns,
The soul's employ is to fan the flame.
In the night of separation, when hope of life must be ²³²
foregone,
The heart's employ is to heap up pain and grief.
Ah separation, such a calamity art thou that ever
Hell is in flames for fear of thee!

From the two magicians, coquetry and blandishment,
The drunkard may learn quarrelsomeness.
Davā'ī, the longing for association with the fair,
Is an attempt to unite flame and cotton.”