Number 4

The rose has spread its finery through the garden, and lifted the veil from its face. Along the path of the morning breeze, in the shape of buds, it has scattered a hundred purses full of gold. The New Year has brought all the world's means of joy and delight together at once. The lily grew thirsty for the tulip's blood, and so it has stuck out its tongue. Like a musk pod not yet ripe, the tulip has scattered itself over every hill and valley. It has mixed blood and musk together, and cast them down as if worthless and unguarded. It is as if a startled deer, in its fear, dropped that scent on the roadside. The narcissus has flung the spittle of the clouds into the eyes of those who cannot see. At the arrival of the rose, the nightingale has raised a clamor and commotion all around. The lily has drawn its blade from water, and the rose has thrown up a shield of fire. It sank into its own thoughts the moment it gazed upon the rose's face. You would think the narcissus drank wine all night long, the way it hangs its head like a drunkard. No, no: out of shame before my beloved's eye it has thrown itself into ruin.