’ For thee, Master of the World, poetry is a princely diversion : but for us it was a deliverance from Hell.’

Hass an: Act III, Scene I.,

‘Where did you learn, O Hassan, bearded, fat, The Ars Poetica? ‘’ In scented streets,

The Market of Bagdad, and boiling sweets, And sitting silent on my coloured mat.’

But servile kings God binds in vulgar state Of gold and marble, carpets rich and deep: You, Caliph, may not laugh nor even weep, While Hassan dreams he is the lord of fate.