HASSAN
Are you my friend? You, Ishak, the glorious singer of Islam?
And if you are my friend, are you like those who were my friends before?
ISHAK Last night, I found you lying like a filthy corpse beneath this window, but I knew by your lute and your countenance that you were a poet, like myself, and I was sorry to think you dead.
HASSAN
A poet? I? I am a confectioner.
ISHAK
You are my friend, Hassan.
HASSAN Then consider this rose. This rose is more bitter than colocynth. For, look you, friend, had she not flung this rose, I would have said she hated me and loved another; it is well. She had the right to hate and love. She could hate and she could love. But now, ah, tell me, you who seem to be my friend, are all you poets liars?
ISHAK
Ya, Hassan, but we tell excellent lies.
HASSAN Why do you say that beauty has a meaning? Why do you not say that beauty is hollow as a drum? Why do you not say that it is sold?
ISHAK
All this disillusionment because a fair lady flung you a rose!
HASSAN
Last night I baked sugar and she flung me water:
this morning I bake gold and she flings me a rose.
Empty, empty, I tell you, friend, all the blue sky.
ISHAK Come, forget her and come away. I will instruct you in the pleasures of the court.