That a dog should have "food-trays," what worth has he
Give orders, so that they may toss him a bone!
The village priest, nicely, this proverb expressed :
"For the pack-horse that kicks, heavy burdens are best." When the night-watch, patrolling, civility shows,
At night, from the thieves, not a soul gets repose.
In the centre of battle the cane of one spear
Is, than thousands of sugar-canes, reckoned more dear.
That all are not worthy of riches, is clear;
One needs riches, another a box on the ear.
When you rear up a cat, off your pigeons it bears;
If a wolf you should fatten, your Joseph it tears.
The building whose base is not stable and true,
Raise not lofty! or show for it dread, if you do!
(ON FORESIGHT AND PROVIDENCE).
How well spoke Bihrām,1 of the desert renowned,
When thrown by an obstinate horse to the ground:
"From the pasture another horse must be obtained;
For when one is rebellious he must be restrained."
You may stop, with a bodkin, the fountain's weak source;
When flooded, an elephant can't stem its course.
Dam the Tigris, oh son! when the water is scant;
For when it increases in volume, you can't!
When the wicked old wolf puts his head in the noose, Take his life! or your heart from your flocks you may loose.
1 Bihrām, a king of Persia, surnamed Ghor, from his passion for hunting the wild ass.
Adoration from Satan's a thing quite unknown;
Good actions have never by villains been shown.
Of a fit place and time, let no foe be possessed!
A foe in a well, and fiend bottled, are best.
Do not say that this snake, with a stick, you must slay;
When you have its head under a stone, pound away!
When a writer has injured his poor fellow men,
A sword for his hands is more fit than a pen.
The vizier who imposes the bad laws he frames,
Will carry you on till he gives you to flames.
Do not say,
"This vizier is befitting the state."
Do not call him vizier; he's the people's bad fate.
To the sayings of Sádi the fortunate list;
For in them growth of state, sense and wisdom exist.
OH blest are the days of those filled with God's love!
Whether meeting with wounds, or His salve, from above!
They are beggars, who all Earthly Royalty shun;
Who, hopeful, in beggary patience have won.
Ev'ry moment they swallow the wine-draught of pain;
And although they taste bitterness, do not complain.
In the pleasure of wine, as a curse, sickness shows;
The thorn is a guard on the stem of the rose.
Not bitter's the patience with Him for its end;
For the bitter is sweet, from the hand of a friend.
His captive desires not from bonds to be loose;
His prey does not seek to escape from His noose.
They are kings in retirement; God's mendicants, crossed;
They are versed in God's ways and their footsteps are lost.
They are bearers of censure; enamoured of God-
The camel excited bears swifter his load.
When will men, to their doings, discover the way,
Since, like water of life, in deep darkness they stay?
Like Jerusalem's temple, interior all light,
But outside, the walls are in ruinous plight.
Like moths, they deliver themselves up to fire;
They're not dressed, like the silkworm, in silken attire.
With their loves in their bosom, for sweethearts they look;
From thirst, their lips dry by the side of a brook!
I don't say that they cannot some water command;
But, beside the Nile's bank, like the dropsied, they stand.
On the Power of True and Metaphorical
Your love of one, made out of water and clay
Like yourself, steals all patience and calmness away.
While awake, you're bewitched with her cheek and her mole;
While dreaming, the thought of her fetters your soul.
In devotion, your head on her feet you've so placed,
That when with her, you look on the world as effaced.
When the longing for gold in your sweetheart is slight,
Gold and dust are exactly the same in your sight.
Your soul with another one cannot be bound,
For, with her, not a place for another is found.
You say that her dwelling exists in your eyes;
If your eyelids you close, in your heart, then, it lies.
You've no care lest dishonour should reach you, at length; To be patient, one moment, you have not the strength.
If she asks for your life, on your palm, you it lay;
If she places a sword on your head, you say,
Since the love whose foundation, on lust, has its stand,
Is such a disturber and wields such command,
Do you wonder that trav❜llers in God's path are found
In the ocean of spiritual consciousness, drown'd?
In love for the Sweetheart, they care not for life;
In the thought of the Friend, they have shunn'd Earthly
In remembrance of God, from the people they've fled; With the Cup-bearer charmed, all the wine they have shed. One cannot with medicine establish their cure,
For no one can tell the disease they endure.
"Am I not thy God?" they so hear, That in clamouring "Yes!" they excited appear.
A group of Directors in lonely retreat,
With their breath full of fire, although earthy their feet.
They root up a hill from its site, with a cry,
And demolish a kingdom, at once, with a sigh.
Like the wind, they're unseen and of hurricane speed;
Like stone they are silent, and rosaries read.
In the mornings, so much do they weep, that their tears,
From their eyes wash the ointment of sleep, that appears.
The horse has been killed, for they drove him all night;
And they clamour at dawn, at their wearied-out plight.
Night and day, in the sea of love's burning, they stay;
From amazement, they know not the night from the day.
For the great Artist's beauty, so great is their craze,
That the picture's rare beauty attracts not their gaze.
Saints yield not their hearts to an elegant skin;
If a fool has done so, he has no brains within.
That person the pure wine of Unity drank,
Who this world and the next, in oblivion, sank.
(OF THE BEGGAR'S SON AND THE KING'S SON).
I have heard that the son of a beggar, one time,
Fell in love with the son of a monarch sublime.
He went and encouraged a passion insane;
Fancy made him believe that his wish he would gain.
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