Better, for him who can bear it, is aloofness from woman; she plays with thee and pleases thee, she wins thee over and trusts thee; but in a trice she betrays thee, she cuts whatever pierces; so a secret should never be told to a woman.
Desire of Avt’handil went into the heart of Dame P’hatman, love grew from more to more, it burned her like fire, she essayed to conceal it, but could not hide her woes, she said: "What am I to do, what will avail me?" She rained, she poured forth tears.
"If I tell him this, alas! he will be wroth, even the sight of him will become rare to me; if I tell him not, I cannot endure it, the fire will become more intense. I will speak, let me die or live, let one (or other) be my lot! How can the physician cure him who tells not what hurts him?"
She wrote a piteous letter to be presented to that youth concerning her love, revealing her sufferings, moving