Three couplets of sun and light, in the apparently added part of the work, where the cry of Çukurova, ruined by Mamluk oppression, reaches Bayezid II.
Those who say "Cûdî, recite a poem", a poet who would like such imagination, and every fancy he touches taking on the shape of truth: his own idea of poetry.
The refrain says "there is", yet the heart has nothing but grief: Jacob's sanctuary ruined by sorrow, a breast wasted as if by consumption for a Joseph, a wound counted a gift.
A cheek like a page dotted before it is written: the play of script and dots, "no good except in the middle", the calligrapher Yâkut, river and distance, and Ahmed Paşa.
Mihrî Hatun's ghazal with the refrain "Allah Allah", a short-metre lament that wonders at the beloved's disloyalty and at the heart's refusal to give up.
Münîrî's Persian wine ghazal on the refrain "-i mey": a cup turned to blood, an abashed Kevser, a secret on the cheek, a rose that pawns its garment, and the daughter of wine.
Eight couplets in the chapter where Bayezid's slave comes down from Niğde to Adana, the oppressors flee, the castles of Külek, Alnakşan and Millen and the notables of Tarsus surrender.
The people of autumn, let them weep, the people of spring, let them laugh, and spring people as ever-fresh divine signs whose meaning all creation explains.
Every couplet ends "I did not, says", and the speaker changes: a regretful heart, a self claiming never to have sinned, a beloved who ruined nothing, a soul that found no nearness.
Each second line states a rule known to all. The jeweller loves the gem, the thief shuns the moon; and an eye overrun with blood needs the jujube of the beloved's lip.
Mihrî Hatun's six-couplet ghazal to a pitiless beloved: a soul that keeps company with grief, wine offered to the rival, liver-blood drunk to the full, and a poet burning in love.
Münîrî's seven-couplet Persian ghazal: a call to the cupbearer, the seed of love sown in the breast, a sun that holds a mirror to the moon, and a martyr of love's funeral prayer.
Two couplets on where trickery ends: after Kilia and Akkerman fall, the lord of Moldavia scales the walls by night and the gazis cut his men down till morning.
Logic and sound reason buried in the lodge, a baba whose words poison the simple, compound ignorance, and refuge "from the sheikh and the devil": a satire.
A candle blossoming on its wick foretells a guest; Câfer Çelebi ties this household belief to spring and, with the refrain "if the candle were", lets flowers burn in its place.
Nigârî makes the world an inn with two doors and sets a madmen's home of gazelles and cries of "Yâ Hû" against the ascetic's mouse-ridden cell, closing on Joseph.
Mihrî Hatun's ghazal opening with a reproach to a jasmine-scented lock: ah and vah in the house of grief, a lover fallen like Majnun, and patience before a fate written in eternity.
Münîrî's Persian ghazal rhyming on "-evī": love told in the words of the Mesnevî, Moses' ember, the breath of Jesus, Khosrow's crown, and the worldly set against the hereafter.
Five couplets naming Ali Beg with images of the caliph Ali, Zülfikar and Burak, where the sovereign orders him to enter Moldavia openly by day and Ali Beg sets out.
Greetings of morning, evening and good time, words recalling the French "soir" and "mon cher", and a line in Arabic script that could not be read: a half-legible jest.
On a spring morning the rose lights lamps of flowers for the dawn-drinking party; an Old Turkish suffix appears twice, and spring gives the tulip a garden on the mountain.
A Naqshbandi sheikh who sits now in the tavern, now in the lodge praises the tavern elder who unsettles reason and calls gazing on the beloved's face the real art.
Mihrî Hatun's six-couplet ghazal written only in undotted letters: a lover complains to a beloved who takes no notice, her sighs filling the skies in a plain, repetitive voice.
Münîrî's Persian ghazal on the refrain "-ī": a yellow face reddened with blood, a lover rising dancing from his grave, knowledge over elixir, and a beloved who sees all.
A ten-couplet mesnevi answering "What sort of infidel is this," where Ali Beg enters Moldavia in 890, its lord flees to Poland, and his throne is burned.
Relative being that is in truth non-existent, oppressor and oppressed undone in the absolute, and a sea not blamed for its colliding waves: on relative existence.
The fear of a broken promise turns, at the end of the opening, into an Arabic prayer. Muhibbî used the same line, and the rose withdraws into the bud to learn a secret.
A red-headed tulip from the mountains of Karadağ, the heart as Attar's hoopoe and a signature ending "he is from Karabağ": the poet sets his homeland beside his name.
Mihrî Hatun's ghazal woven entirely from pilgrimage concepts: a Kaaba-faced beloved, a quarter circumambulated, love as the ihram robe, and the zamzam of a lip, in seven couplets.
Münîrî's last Persian ghazal in the divan: a travelling beloved who is never anyone's guest, a story that fills the world, and a candle that lights a hut of sorrows.
Five couplets praising the sultan as God's caliph, in the chapter listing Bayezid II's works: a medrese and imaret in Amasya and a bridge over the Kızılırmak at Osmancık.
The sea of necessary being, colliding contingent waves, waves that expound the sea, and the verse "He is not questioned about what He does": the sea image explained.
The lover asks that the army of down be drowned in the cheek, and the beloved answers "There is no Moses here"; the refrain "there is no" leaves moon and garden bereft.
Opening with the wine of the primordial covenant, the ghazal plays on three senses of makam and gathers love's madmen in a desert of devotion to the Prophet's family.
Mihrî Hatun's ten-couplet ghazal of longing for a scattered circle of friends: complaint against fate, yearning for past days, and hope for friends sent to the land of the infidels.
The first of Münîrî's Turkish ghazals: the manifestation of beauty, divine names seen in motes, counting oneself as nothing, and dying before death; Ersoy's example of Sufi symbols.
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