You strut in piety the while you take
That pilgrimage to Mecca. Now beware,
For starving relatives befoul the air,
And curse, O fool, the threshold you forsake.


LXXXVII

How man is made! He staggers at the voice,
The little voice that leads you to the land
Of virtue; but, on hearing the command
To lead a giant army, will rejoice.


LXXXVIII

Behold the cup whereon your slave has trod;
That is what every cup is falling to.
Your slave--remember that he lives by you,
While in the form of him we bow to God.


LXXXIX

The lowliest of the people is the lord
Who knows not where each day to make his bed,
Whose crown is kept upon the royal head
By that poor naked minister, the sword.