Straightway a supple courtier standing by
Cried to the singer, ‘Blasted be the throat
Which frights our master with a boding note
In lieu of mirthful music; look to die.’
‘Nay,’ Haroun whispered, ‘do not blame the bard;
He saw our soul benighted, and, like wind,
Dispersed the veil of error. Let him find
My richest gems too poor for his reward.’