Bags of money: bring the weightiest forth: The money thou’rt to lend the sultan, Nathan.
Novice, thou’st yet to learn How he day after day will scoop and scoop, Till nothing but an hollow empty paring, A husk as light as film, is left behind. Thou’st yet to learn how prodigality From prudent bounty’s never-empty coffers Borrows and borrows, till there’s not a purse Left to keep rats from starving. Thou mayst fancy That he who wants thy gold will heed thy counsel; But when has he yet listened to advice? Imagine now what just befell me with him.
I went in and found him with his sister, Engaged, or rather rising up from chess. Sittah plays—not amiss. Upon the board The game, that Saladin supposed was lost And had given up, yet stood. When I drew nigh, And had examined it, I soon discovered It was not gone by any means.
For you A blest discovery, a treasure-trove.
He only needed to remove his king Behind the tower t’ have got him out of check. Could I but make you sensible—
Then with the knight still left.—I would have shown him And called him to the board.—He must have won; But what d’ye think he did?
He would not listen; but with scorn o’erthrew The standing pieces.
And said, he chose to be check-mate—he chose it— Is that to play the game?
Most surely not: ’Tis to play with the game.
Money here or there Matters but little. Not to listen to thee, And on a point of such importance, Hafi, There lies the rub. Not even to admire Thine eagle eye—thy comprehensive glance— That calls for vengeance:—does it not, Al-Hafi?
I only tell it to thee that thou mayst see How his brain’s formed. I bear with him no longer. Here I’ve been running to each dirty Moor, Inquiring who will lend him. I, who ne’er Went for myself a begging, go a borrowing, And that for others. Borrowing’s much the same As begging; just as lending upon usury Is much the same as thieving—decency Makes not of lewdness virtue. On the Ganges, Among my ghebers, I have need of neither: Nor need I be the tool or pimp of either— Upon the Ganges only there are men. Here, thou alone art somehow almost worthy To have lived upon the Ganges. Wilt thou with me? And leave him with the captive cloak alone, The booty that he wants to strip thee of. Little by little he will flay thee clean. Thins thou’lt be quit at once, without the tease Of being sliced to death. Come wilt thou with me? I’ll find thee with a staff.