54
FERISHTAH'S FANCIES.
"Attributes?
Faugh!—nay, Ferishtah,—’tis an ulcer, think!
Attributes, quotha? Here's poor flesh and blood,
Like thine and mine and every man's, a prey
To hell-fire! Hast thou lost thy wits for once?"
Faugh!—nay, Ferishtah,—’tis an ulcer, think!
Attributes, quotha? Here's poor flesh and blood,
Like thine and mine and every man's, a prey
To hell-fire! Hast thou lost thy wits for once?"
"Friend, here they are to find and profit by!
Put pain from out the world, what room were left
For thanks to God, for love to Man? Why thanks
Except for some escape, whate'er the style,
From pain that might be, name it as thou mayst?
Why love,—when all thy kind, save me, suppose,
Thy father—and thy son—and . . well, thy dog,
To eke the decent number out—we few
Who happen—like a handful of chance stars
Put pain from out the world, what room were left
For thanks to God, for love to Man? Why thanks
Except for some escape, whate'er the style,
From pain that might be, name it as thou mayst?
Why love,—when all thy kind, save me, suppose,
Thy father—and thy son—and . . well, thy dog,
To eke the decent number out—we few
Who happen—like a handful of chance stars
