" "How," said the poet, "should I assume to myself that
which belongeth to another, and knowing, too, that lying before kings is
one of the basest of actions? But I agree to the condition, O our lord
the khalif." So he repeated his ode. The king, perplexed, and unable to
remember any of it, made a sign to the mamluk, but he had retained
nothing; then called to the female slave, but she was unable to repeat a
word. "O brother of the Arabs," said the king, "thou hast spoken truth;
and the ode is thine without doubt. I have never heard it before.
Produce, therefore, what it is written upon, and I will give thee its
weight in money, as I have promised." "Wilt thou," said the poet, "send
one of the attendants to carry it?" "To carry what?" demanded the king.
"Is it not upon a paper in thy possession?" "No, O our lord the khalif.
At the time I composed it I could not procure a piece of paper on which
to write it, and could find nothing but a fragment of a marble column
left me by my father; so I engraved it upon that, and it lies in the
courtyard of the palace." He had brought it, wrapped up, on the back of
a camel. The king, to fulfil his promise, was obliged to exhaust his
treasury; and, to prevent a repetition of this trick, in future rewarded
poets according to the custom of kings.
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