LXXXVII.

With the first ray, or rather grey of morn, Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness; and pale As Passion rises, with its bosom worn, Arrayed herself with mantle, gem, and veil. The Nightingale that sings with the deep thorn, Which fable places in her breast of wail, Is lighter far of heart and voice than those Whose headlong passions form their proper woes.

LXXXVIII.

And that's the moral of this composition, If people would but see its real drift;-- But _that_ they will not do without suspicion, Because all gentle readers have the gift Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision: While gentle writers also love to lift Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural, The numbers are too great for them to flatter all.