Pleasure and pride are the tall flowers that spring
Within the fertile shadow of the king.
There sat a beggar in the market-place,
Of sullen manner and a surly face,
Who caught him by the cloak; that with a stone
He smote the beggar's head, and so passed on,
Cassim Ben Ali, up the palace hill,
Leaving the beggar, fallen, grim, and still.
Sudden as the king's favour is his wrath.
Who for the morrow knows what joy he hath?