ABSTRACT
IT is related that there was once, in the antiquity of time and the passing of the ages, a powerful and glorious king who had a wazir named Ibrahim. Ibrahim had a daughter who was the marvel of all grace and beauty, and added to a perfection of carriage and sweetness of behaviour a most unusual intelligence. She loved the joy of friends and the gaiety of wine, fair faces, rare verse, and any tales of wonder. The delicacy of her perfection turned every head and heart; a poet of that time said of her:
I also lie in the snare Of this fair huntress of the Turks, Who, being learned in the sages’ works, Once said, before I was aware: ‘Although my article is accusative Your verb will not rise up and govern it.’ What answer could I give To so much wit? ‘The rules have been revised of late,’ I said, ‘If you consent I’ll show you without fail That now the head Of my most weighty argument Comes at the finish of my long-drawn tail.’
