Kind friend of Bencerraje’s line, what judgment dost thou hold
  Of all that Zaida’s changeful moods before thine eyes unfold? 
  Now by my life I swear that she to all would yield her will;
  Yet by my death I swear that she to all is recreant still. 
  Come near, my friend, and listen while I show to you this note,
  Which to the lovely lady in bitter grief I wrote;
  Repeat not what I read to thee, for ’twere a deadly shame,
  Since thou her face admirest, should slander smirch her name: 
  “O Moorish maiden, who like time, forever on the wing,
  Dost smiles and tears, with changing charm, to every bosom bring,
  Thy love is but a masquerade, and thou with grudging hand
  Scatterest the crumbs of hope on all the crowds that round thee stand. 
  With thee there is no other law of love and kindliness
  But what alone may give thee joy and garland of success. 
  With each new plume thy maidens in thy dark locks arrange,
  With each new tinted garment thy thoughts, thy fancies change. 
  I own that thou art fairer than even the fairest flower
  That at the flush of early dawn bedecks the summer’s bower. 
  But, ah, the flowers in summer hours change even till they fade,
  And thou art changeful as the rose that withers in the shade. 
  And though thou art the mirror of beauty’s glittering train,
  Thy bosom has one blemish, thy mind one deadly stain;
  For upon all alike thou shed’st the radiance of thy smile,
  And this the treachery by which thou dost the world beguile. 
  I do not plead in my complaint thy loveliness is marred,
  Because thy words are cruel, because thy heart is hard;
  Would God that thou wert insensible as is the ocean wild
  And not to all who meet thee so affable and mild;
  Ah, sweetest is the lingering fruit that latest comes in time,
  Ah, sweetest is the palm-tree’s nut that those who reach must climb. 
  Alas! ’twas only yesterday a stranger reached the town—­
  Thou offeredst him thy heart and bade him keep it for his own! 
  O Zaida, tell me, how was this? for oft I heard thee say
  That thou wert mine and ’twas to me thy heart was given away. 
  Hast thou more hearts than one, false girl, or is it changefulness
  That makes thee give that stranger guest the heart that I possess? 
  One heart alone is mine, and that to thee did I resign. 
  If thou hast many, is my love inadequate to thine? 
  O Zaida, how I fear for thee, my veins with anger glow;
  O Zaida, turn once more to me, and let the stranger go. 
  As soon as he hath left thy side his pledges, thou wilt find,
  Were hollow and his promises all scattered to the wind. 
  And if thou sayst thou canst not feel the pains that absence brings,
  ’Tis that thy heart has never known love’s gentle whisperings. 
  ’Tis that thy fickle mind has me relinquished here to pine,
  Like some old slave forgotten in this