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FERISHTAH'S FANCIES.
Beg of me nothing thou may'st win thyselfBy work, or waive with magnanimity,Since we are peers acknowledged,—scarcely peersHad I implanted any want of thineOnly my power could meet and gratify.'No: rather hear, at man's indifference—'Wherefore did I contrive for thee that earHungry for music, and direct thine eyeTo where I hold a seven-stringed instrument,Unless I meant thee to beseech me play?'"
Once I saw a chemist take a pinch of powder—Simple dust it seemed—and half-unstop a phial:—Out dropped harmless dew. "Mixed nothings make"—quoth he
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