But clean destroy its sense; as sure as fancy dotes.
E’en as the sick man of our tale, saints’ hearts are grieved;
Though, like the deaf man, you suppose you’ve good achieved.185
The scribe of writ inspired had all its text by heart;
Then thought himself inspired;—would play a prophet’s part.
The Prophet, warbler-like, smote him with powerful wing;
He forthwith sank to blind despair, through conscience’ sting.
So ’tis with you. Perversely, or with vain surmise,
You would interpret words descended from the skies.
Like Hārūt, and like Mārūt, well you’ve learnt the tune