Pleased he beheld the spy, a brother-page.
A friend allied in office and in age;
Who promised much that secret he would be,
But high the price he fix’d in secrecy:
“‘Were you suspected, my unhappy friend,’
Began the boy, ‘where would your sorrows end?
In all the palace there is not a page
The Caliph would not torture in his rage:
I think I see thee now impaled alive,
Writhing in pangs - but come, my friend! revive;