With all its stars; and with a stretch attaining
A certain press or cupboard niched in yonder,
In that remote recess which you may see—
Or if you don't the fault is not in me,—
LXVII.
I wish to be perspicuous—and the black,
I say, unlocking the recess, pulled forth
A quantity of clothes fit for the back
Of any Mussulman, whate'er his worth:
And of variety there was no lack—