Wearied with this insipid babbling we came
to another cell: here a nobleman had sent for a poet from the Street of
Pride to indite him a sonnet of praise to his angel, and an eulogy of
himself; the bard was discoursing of his art: "I can," said he, "liken
her to everything red and everything white under the sun, and her tresses
to an hundred things more yellow than gold, and as for your poem, I can
trace your lineage through many knights and princes, and through the
water of the deluge right up to Adam." "Well, here's a poet," quoth I,
"who is a better genealogist than I." "Come, come," said the Angel,
"their intention is to deceive the woman, but, once in her presence, you
may be sure they will have to meet trick with trick."
Upon leaving these we had a glimpse of cells where fouler deeds were
being done than modesty permits to mention, and which caused my companion
to snatch me away in anger from this fatuous court into the princess'
treasury (for we went where we list notwithstanding doors and locks).
There we saw myriads of fair women, all kinds of beverages, fruits and
dainties, stringed instruments and books of songs,--harps, pipes, odes
and carols, all sorts of games,--backgammon, dice {20a} and cards;
pictures of various lands, towns and persons, inventions and amusing
tricks; all kinds of waters, perfumes, pigments and spots to make the
ugly fair, and the old look young, and the leman's malodorous bones smell
sweet for the nonce.
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