Aswarak: I will now sing.
Everyone: Oh, Allah, must this be?
Oskarashi (grimly): Let him sing. Guards be at hand to do my bidding.
Aswarak (aside): Thy last bidding in this world, O corpulent Father of Obscenity. (Aloud) As thou sayest, O Protector of the Poor. (He takes his lute and sings, gazing ardently—almost too ardently—at Zobeide):
Ah, when the sun
Gives up the ghost;
And lovers run,
With ardent boast,
To woo the one
Each fancies most—