He groaned, lifting not his face, nor saying aught.  Then said she, ’Art thou truly in search of great things, O youth?’

Still he groaned, answering no syllable.  And she continued, ’’Tis surely in sweet friendliness I ask.  Art thou not a fair youth, one to entice a damsel to perfect friendliness?’

Louder yet did he groan at her words, thinking, ‘A damsel, verily!’ So the old woman said, ’I wot thou art angry with me; but now look up, O nephew of the barber! no time for vexation.  What says the poet?—­

“Cares the warrior for his wounds
When the steed in battle bounds?”

Moreover: 

“Let him who grasps the crown strip not for shame,
Lest he expose what gain’d it blow and maim!”

So be it with thee and thy thwacking, O foolish youth!  Hide it from thyself, thou silly one!  What! thou hast been thwacked, and refusest the fruit of it—­which is resoluteness, strength of mind, sternness in pursuit of the object!’

Then she softened her tone to persuasiveness, saying, ’’Twas written I should be the head of thy fortune, O Shibli Bagarag! and thou’lt be enviable among men by my aid, so look upon me, and (for I know thee famished) thou shah presently be supplied with viands and bright wines and sweetmeats, delicacies to cheer thee.’

Now, the promise of food and provision was powerful with Shibli Bagarag, and he looked up gloomily.  And the old woman smiled archly at him, and wriggled in her seat like a dusty worm, and said, ’Dost thou find me charming, thou fair youth?’

He was nigh laughing in her face, but restrained himself to reply, ’Thou art that thou art!’

Said she, ‘Not so, but that I shall be.’  Then she said, ’O youth, pay me now a compliment!’

Shibli Bagarag was at a loss what further to say to the old woman, for his heart cursed her for her persecutions, and ridiculed her for her vanities.  At last he bethought himself of the saying of the poet, truly the offspring of fine wit, where he says: 

          Expect no flatteries from me,
               While I am empty of good things;
          I’ll call thee fair, and I’ll agree
               Thou boldest Love in silken strings,
     When thou bast primed me from thy plenteous store! 
          But, oh! till then a clod am I: 
               No seed within to throw up flowers: 
          All’s drouthy to the fountain dry: 
               To empty stomachs Nature lowers: 
     The lake was full where heaven look’d fair of yore!

So, when he had spoken that, the old woman laughed and exclaimed, ’Thou art apt! it is well said!  Surely I excuse thee till that time!  Now listen!  ’Tis written we work together, and I know it by divination.  Have I not known thee wandering, and on thy way to this city of Shagpat, where thou’lt some day sit throned?  Now I propose to thee this—­and ’tis an excellent proposal—­that I lead thee to great things, and make thee glorious, a sitter in high seats, Master of an Event?’