XLV

But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me

The Quarrel of the Universe let be:

And in some corner of the Hubbub coucht,

Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.

XLVI

For in and out, above, about, below,

’T is nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,

Play’d in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,

Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.

XLVII

And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,

End in the Nothing all Things end in — Yes —

Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what

Thou shalt be — Nothing — Thou shalt not be less.

XLVIII

While the Rose blows along the River Brink,

With old Khayyám the Ruby Vintage drink:

And when the Angel with his darker Draught

Draws up to Thee — take that, and do not shrink.