of his evil plight, as is said by the poet:

The curse of sorrow is comparison!
As the sun casteth shade, night showeth star,
We, measuring what we were by what we are,
Behold the depth to which we are undone.

Wherefore he counselleth:

Look neither too much up, nor down at all,
But, forward stepping, strive no more to fall.

And the advice is excellent; but, as is again said:

The preacher preacheth, and the hearer heareth,
But comfort first each function requireth.

And 'wisdom to a hungry stomach is thin pottage,' saith the shrewd reader
of men. Little comfort was there with Shibli Bagarag, as he looked on
the city of Shagpat the clothier! He cried aloud that his evil chance
had got the better of him, and rolled his body in the sand, beating his
breast, and conjuring up images of the profusion of dainties and the
abundance of provision in Shiraz, exclaiming, 'Well-a-way and woe's me!
this it is to be selected for the diversion of him that plotteth against
man.' Truly is it written:

On different heads misfortunes come:
One bears them firm, another faints,
While this one hangs them like a drum
Whereon to batter loud complaints.