Than in his crook before; but Envy finds
More soil in cities than on mountains bare,
And the frank sun of spirits clear and rare
Breeds poisonous fogs in low and marish minds.
Soon it was whispered at the royal ear
That, though wise Dara’s province, year by year,
Like a great spunge, drew wealth and plenty up,
Yet, when he squeezed it at the king’s behest,
Some golden drops, more rich than all the rest,
Went to the filling of his private cup.