As the wings of Ambition can fly: If thou the clear summit of hope wouldst attain, And not have thy labour in vain; Be steadfast in that which impell'd, for the peace Of earth he who leaves must have trust: He is safe while he soars, but when faith shall cease, Desponding he drops to the dust. Then said he, 'Fear no further thwacking, but honour and prosperity in the place of it. What says the poet?-- "We faint, when for the fire There needs one spark; We droop, when our desire Is near its mark." How near to it art thou, O Shibli Bagarag! Know, then, that among this people there is great reverence for the growing of hair, and he that is hairiest is honoured most, wherefore are barbers creatures of especial abhorrence, and of a surety flourish not. And so it is that I owe my station to the esteem I profess for the cultivation of hair, and to my persecution of the clippers of it. And in this kingdom is no one that beareth such a crop as I, saving one, a clothier, an accursed one!--and may a blight fall upon him for his vanity and his affectation of solemn priestliness, and his lolling in his shop-front to be admired and marvelled at by the people. So this fellow I would disgrace and bring to scorn,--this Shagpat! for he is mine enemy, and the eye of the King my master is on him. Now I conceive thy assistance in this matter, Shibli Bagarag,--thou, a barber.' When Shibli Bagarag heard mention of Shagpat, and the desire for vengeance in the Vizier, he was as a new man, and he smelt the sweetness of his own revenge as a vulture smelleth the carrion from afar, and he said, 'I am thy servant, thy slave, O Vizier!' Then smiled he as to his own soul, and he exclaimed, 'On my head be it!' And it was to him as when sudden gusts of perfume from garden roses of the valley meet the traveller's nostril on the hill that overlooketh the valley, filling him with ecstasy and newness of life, delicate visions. And he cried, 'Wullahy! this is fair; this is well! I am he that was appointed to do thy work, O man in office! What says the poet?-- "The destined hand doth strike the fated blow: Surely the arrow's fitted to the bow!" And he says: "The feathered seed for the wind delayeth, The wind above the garden swayeth, The garden of its burden knoweth, The burden falleth, sinketh, soweth."' So the Vizier chuckled and nodded, saying, 'Right, right! aptly spoken, O youth of favour! 'Tis even so, and there is wisdom in what is written: "Chance is a poor knave; Its own sad slave; Two meet that were to meet: Life 's no cheat."' Upon that he cried, 'First let us have with us the Eclipser of Reason, and take counsel with her, as is my custom.'