Supposing saints’ miracles tricks, magic-wrought, They fancy them both the result of deep thought. Magicians, at bidding of Pharaoh, did cast Their wands down, to Moses’ rod as a repast. From his rod to their wands a chasm there must be; From his act to theirs we an interval see. 35 God’s curse on their witchcraft and devilish art! His blessing on Moses, who chose the best part! To me, like as apes are man’s miscreants all;[70] To speak of them causes me, straight, sick to fall! Whatever men practise, apes will copy still; Our actions they mimic; of thought they know _nil_. They cunningly do what they’ve seen that man did; The reason they seek not; from them that is hid. A man acts from reason; an ape from mere whim. Perdition may seize all such actors, and him! 40 The hypocrite[71] worships[72] as aping the saint, For form’s sake, or worse. His religion’s mere feint. In pilgrimage, worship, and fasting, and alms,[73] Believers and hypocrites vie, as in psalms. Believers shall win in the last judgment day; The hypocrites then shall receive their due pay. The two are contending one great game of deeds, As factions of Mervites and Rāzites[74] with creeds. They each shall go there, where their party shall stand; And each shall be classed as their actions demand.[75] 45 Just style these “Believers” their hearts fill with glee; But dub them all “Hypocrites,” rage then thou’lt see. The first one’s ashamed of the last one’s true self; This last-named’s a plague to the first, like an elf. No virtue in mere words or letters is found; “Believer”’s a word in itself but a sound. If “Hypocrite!” cast in their teeth be at last, As scorpion’s sting to their souls it clings fast. If “Hypocrite”’s name be not product of hell, So bitter at all times why does its sound tell? 50 This name’s great repulsion is not in its form; The bitter it smacks of is not from a corm. The word’s but a vase; ’tis its sense is the wine; The sense of a book in the title may shine. Sweet lakes and salt seas do we find here on earth; The barrier between them: “Thus far; go not forth!” They both, in their origin, flow from one source; Look not at their severance; it’s matter of course. The touchstone’s the test by the which thou must try If gold be quite pure, or debased with alloy. 55 The touchstone of conscience, where planted by God, What’s certain, what’s doubtful, makes plain without nod. A fishbone that sticks in the throat of a man No ease ever gives till it’s coughed out again. In ten thousand mouthfuls should one bone be found, As soon as perceived, it’s spit out on the ground.