I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. I regret little, I would change still less. Since there my past life lies, why alter it? The very wrong to Francis!--it is true I took his coin, was tempted and complied, And built this house and sinned, and all is said. My father and my mother died of want. Well, had I riches of my own? you see How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot. They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died: And I have laboured somewhat in my time And not been paid profusely. Some good son Paint my two hundred pictures--let him try! No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes, You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. This must suffice me here. What would one have? In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance-- Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, Meted on each side by the angel's reed, For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me To cover--the three first without a wife, While I have mine! So--still they overcome Because there's still Lucrezia,--as I choose.
If a stranger passed the tent of Hóseyn, he cried "A churl's!" Or haply "God help the man who has neither salt nor bread!" --"Nay," would a friend exclaim, "he needs nor pity nor scorn More than who spends small thought on the shore-sand, picking pearls, --Holds but in light esteem the seed-sort, bears instead On his breast a moon-like prize, some orb which of night makes morn.
"What if no flocks and herds enrich the son of Sinán? They went when his tribe was mulct, ten thousand camels the due, Blood-value paid perforce for a murder done of old. 'God gave them, let them go! But never since time began, Muléykeh, peerless mare, owned master the match of you, And you are my prize, my Pearl: I laugh at men's land and gold!'
"So in the pride of his soul laughs Hóseyn--and right, I say. Do the ten steeds run a race of glory? Outstripping all, Ever Muléykeh stands first steed at the victor's staff. Who started, the owner's hope, gets shamed and named, that day. 'Silence,' or, last but one, is 'The Cuffed,' as we use to call Whom the paddock's lord thrusts forth. Right, Hóseyn, I say, to laugh!"
"Boasts he Muléykeh the Pearl?" the stranger replies: "Be sure On him I waste nor scorn nor pity, but lavish both On Duhl the son of Sheybán, who withers away in heart For envy of Hóseyn's luck. Such sickness admits no cure. A certain poet has sung, and sealed the same with an oath, 'For the vulgar--flocks and herds! The Pearl is a prize apart.'"