Súdába sat enthroned, adorned with earrings
And chaplet of wrought gold upon her head.
She called the prince and said, as they conversed:—
“The Sháh hath set these treasures forth, and none
Hath seen such crowns and thrones. The sum of
gifts

Is past all reckoning: to carry them
Thou wouldst require two hundred elephants,
And I will give to thee my daughter too.
Now look upon my face and head and crown:
What pretext hast thou to reject my love,
And slight my face and person? I am dead
Not seeing thee; I cry out, toss, and suffer:
The light of day is hidden by mine anguish,
My sun is turned to lapis-lazuli.
And now for seven years this love of mine
Hath made my face to run with tears of blood.
Make me a happy woman—none shall know—
Vouchsafe to me a day of youth again.
More than the great king hath bestowed on thee
Will I prepare thee—thrones, crowns, diadems;
But if thou turn aside from my behest,
And if thy heart come not to my relief,
I will destroy thy hope of ever reigning
And make both sun and moon turn black before
thee.”
“Now God forbid,” he said, “that I should give
Religion to the winds for passion's sake,
That I should treat my sire disloyally,
And be a coward and a fool at once!
Thou art his wife—the sunlight of his throne—
And shouldst not perpetrate a crime like this.”
She rose in wrath and hate, clutched him and
cried:—
“I told thee my heart's secret, but thine own
Was hidden! In thy folly thou dost aim
To ruin me and show the wise my shame.”