8 Life and Writings 
Thirty years I toiled in pain and anxiety, 
That the king might bestow on me riches 
_ and honours; 
That he might give me independence, 
That he might exalt me among the nobles ; 
At last he opened the door of his treasury, 
And dealt me out the pittance of a slave: 
The king’s present, bestowed on a vender of 
sherbets, 
Procured me a draught of barley-water in 
the street. 
I see that king Mahmood has no greatness 
of mind; 
His soul is averse from all liberality: 
The king who is destitute of generosity, 
Isnot worthy of being praised by the poet. 
The vilest of things is better than a king, 
Who possesses neither faith, nor piety, nor 
understanding : 
But to exalt the head of the unworthy, 
To expect from him any thing good, 
Is to scatter dust in your own eyes, 
Or nourish a serpent in your bosom. 
. The tree, which is by nature bitter, 
Tho’ you should plant it in the garden of 
Paradise, 
And water it from the fountain of Eternity, 
And spread about its roots the purest honey, 
