Vis and Ramin

VIS'S LAMENT 285
ally sigh and thou burn. What pleasure has it in such
a state that 1 am continually in a stream of tears and thou
in fire ? I turn the world into a sea by mine eyes. I take
ship and mingle with the fishes, wrapped in a bloody
garment. I have sent a letter to him on whom I think ;
shall it be that he will read it or not ? Will he understand
my heartburnings or not? Will he pity me, write me an
answer, and give pleasure to my heart ? Oh ! what shall I
do ? What worse than this can befall a lover, that day and
night I should have no other joy
but to wait for a letter?
And I have doubts of even this from my forsaker. ... Oh !
the time of tenderness and pleasure is past for me, when I
had my will and caressed ! Now my lover has put
to this, so that a letter seems a solace to me ;
an end
and if ever I
sleep, to see him in dreams is a joy to me. Alas that time
when the discourse of a lover is wasted on a letter, and the
sight of him for a dream ! I am more worthy of pity than
all other lovers, because I have no sleep through thinking
of thee, although I waking dream. On the other hand, I
cannot expect a letter from him who forsook me unjustly,
for he has become weary of me. Oh Fate, I adjure thee!
| Why am I left thus, that from such luxury such dis-ease 320
should befall me from the lover, and instead of pride,
humiliation ? What has he given me in place of all my
bounty and joy of youth? Such impatient love? Why
have I not drunk the horror 1 of the
2
asp -serpent? Why
was I not given to wild beasts to be devoured ? If he has
brought me into such a state and loss of power over my
heart, why did I not die when I was in a good state ? Death
is more pleasant in the time of joy than keeping life to the
end in dishonour. Alas, Fate ! Thy
deed is always this,
to add grief to the disheartened. Thou destroyest thy
thou dost
pleasure and theirs in that thou separatest lovers ;
not bring fulfilment, and makest them hopeless. That
cloud which rains upon the disheartened rains also upon
stones. The wind, which is continual, wafts the scent of
roses to men, but it never wafts the perfume of my lover to
1
Zari, 815.
* Atpiti, 815.