Then they gave themselves up anew to the pleasures of the
nuptial bed and passed seven whole days thus, carousing and
conversing and reciting verses and telling pleasant tales and
anecdotes, in the intervals of amorous dalliance; for so
drowned were they in the sea of passion, that they knew not
night from day and it was to them, for very stress of joy and
gladness and pleasure and delight, as if the seven days were
but one day, and that without a morrow. Nor did they know the
seventh day, but by the coming of the singers and players on
instruments of music;[FN#85] whereat Rose-in-bud was beyond
measure wondered and improvised the following verses:
Despite the enviers' rage and malice of the spy, I've won of
him I love my wish to satisfy;
Yea, we have crowned our loves with many a close embrace, On
cushions of brocade and silken stuffs piled high
Upon a couch full soft, of perfumed leather made And stuffed
with down of birds of rarest kind that fly.
Thanks to the honeyed dews of my beloved's lips, Illustrious
past compare, no need of wine have I.
Yea, for the sweet excess of our fulfilled delight, The present
from the past we know, nor far from nigh.
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