His name is Pādshāh Qulī, and he is the son of Shāh Qulī Khān Nāranjī.* He has a poetic* turn of mind. The following verses are excerpts from his works:—

“Such sweetness has the Beauty which knows no beginning
conferred on the lovely,
That love reaches a stage at which it gladly relinquishes ²¹²
life.”

“See the extent of my jealousy. From love's madness I
come to myself
If any one perceives that my speech is of the beloved.”

“Thou art the unrestrained hunter and I am the (wounded)
quarry
Which the hunter, from excess of cruelty, neglects to kill.”

“Thou art one who hast not experienced the delicious
torment of the night of separation,
Nor seen thyself shrinking from (the fierce delight of) the
day of reunion.
The thorn of reproach has not detained thy skirt,
Thou hast not seen thyself with thy head drooping on thy
breast like a bud.
Never has thy love been constant,
Thou hast not felt the sweet anguish of the beloved's
neglect;
With no one hast thou held discourse of love,
Thou hast a heart which has nothing to regret.”

“My heart, at the sight of another in the arms of the be-
loved, is like the bird
Which the school-boy, from fear of the master, suddenly
releases.”
“Now that, after an age, my eye falls on the ravisher of my
heart
The veil of shame falls between us, so that I cannot see
her face.”

“I am not one to tell my tale to a messenger,
Or to base pretensions on what a messenger may say.”

“From one glance of thine in the assembly of me and my
friends
²¹³ What quarrels had we not among ourselves?”

His father, Shāh Qulī Khān, composed* the following quat­rain:—

“Sometimes I break my vow of repentance and sometimes
the wine-bottle,
Once, twice, incessantly I break my flute.
O Lord, deliver me from the evil promptings of my spirit!
How often shall I repent and again break my vow of
repentance?”

Praised be God! Even a clod has broken into flame.

One day after the return from the journey to Paṭna* Jaẕbī, Qāẓī Shams-ud-dīn Qazvīnī, and some other poets, began to argue about a couplet of Ḥusain anā'ī's, viz.:—

“If, for example, thou sittest behind a mirror, a person
Standing before it sees his own image with the face
reversed.”*

When I drew near to them they asked me the meaning of the couplet which formed the subject of discussion. I replied, “Such is the state of things nowadays that it is impossible to draw any distinction between the poetry of one's friends and (the actions of) Tītāl.”* Now this Tītāl, who lived in the days of Sulān Ḥusain Mīrzā Darharī,* was a wag* and a linguist, a man of disguises,* who used to go into social assemblies and into colleges clad in the turban, the clothes, and the trappings of a learned man and accompanied by a body of pupils. He would first introduce his theses and discuss them in a very orderly manner, thus making himself attractive to all present. He would next introduce sophistries confused with meaningless arguments, until even the most learned doctors were thrown into perplexity.