42 – ʿUthmān ibn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Umawī recited to me, from the poetry of an Arab:

A lone wanderer, avoiding settled folk yet seeking a welcome meal,
Came to our camp across a stretch of harsh, trackless ground;
He arrived—soaked by a pallid, biting rain,
The drops still falling as he drooped sideways in the saddle.
I said to my family, “What is this muffled groan of a mount,
And this gaunt soul the barking hounds have steered our way?”
They answered, “A supplicant, a night-visitor,
Cast toward you by long nights and crushing calamities.”
So I rose without the slightest hesitation;
None of the miser’s tight-fisted excuses stirred within me.
I called for Shibl and he responded—for often
We shoulder the cost of ten nights’ fare for one who will not even greet us.
Then the father of noble guests bestirred himself, as though
From sheer good humor his jest had turned to earnest action;
He went to the last stump of our wealth—our grazing stock already worn thin—
Yet our honor in the matter remained whole and unharmed.
We set that wealth as a shield against reproach, so that,
When the generous count their bounty, it seems among their gifts.
We enjoy the praise accorded to those who own hundreds, even though
Within our household not a single asset survives the night.