45 The varlet who to serve his lord is present there...

45 The varlet who to serve his lord is present there, Must rank before the absentee, for goodly fare. Thus, having Teacher chosen, be not too thin-skinned, Nor wishy-washy, to a muddy puddle kinned.

For every buffet, see thou do not umbrage take: How can a mirror polished be, unless it bear a shake?" Hear now this pregnant tale narrators have preserved; A practice it relates in Qazwīn much observed: Upon the breast, the arms, the bladebones, and the like, With needle's point and indigo, tattooed designs they strike. 50 A certain Qazwīn bully to an artist hied, To have a brave design imprinted on his hide. The artist first inquired what pattern he'd select.

The man a lion rampant thought he must elect; And said: "My luck resides in Leo,-lion-sign; Depict thou then a lion, deep-blue stained, benign." The artist then demanded where he'd wish it done; Our man replied: "Between my bladebones it enthrone." The artist then began to ply his needles’ train; The Qazwīn bully bellowed, smarting with the pain. 55 The artist he addressed: "Most clever man of skill, Thou’lt drive me mad.

What picture works me so much ill?" Said he: "A lion's form is what thou didst enjoin." "O yes!" replied the bully. "What part dost thou coin?" The artist: "At the tail have I commenced this time." Our man: "O never mind the tail, designer prime! Your lion's tail has whacked me on my rump so hard, That I've no power to breathe, nor such pain disregard.

Allow thy lion to remain without a tail; 60 Thy needles have unnerved me with their sharp assail." The artist then began upon another part, And worked his instruments. They soon induced new smart. The patient screamed again: "What member limnest thou now?" Our artist answered: "’Tis the lion's ear, I trow." His man replied: "O leave him without ears this time; An earless lion's not so bad. Cut short the rhyme." Anew the artist on a part assayed his hand.

Afresh the bully interfered, by pain unmanned. "What part art now at work on? Say, my worthy friend!" 65 "O," said the artist, "now his body I append." "Leave out his body!" gasped the suffering Qazwīn man; "The pain's unbearable. Make short work, as thou can." The artist now quite lost his wits, as well he might; He scratched his head; sought how to mend his plight; Dashed all his needles, indigo, design, to earth; In anger saying: "What the plague's come now to birth?