'd to dine,
And greatly,
Fall thus upon the cater and wine
Sedately?

So there was feasting in the Hall, and in the City, and over Earth; great
pledging the Sovereign of Barbers, who had mastered an Event, and become
the benefactor of his craft and of his kind. 'Tis certain the race of the
Bagarags endured for many centuries, and his seed were the rulers of men,
and the seal of their empire stamped on mighty wax the Tackle of Barbers.

Now, of the promise made by the Sons of Aklis to visit Shibli Bagarag
before their compulsory return to the labour of the Sword, and recount to
him the marvel of their antecedent adventures; and of the love and grief
nourished in the souls of men by the beauty and sorrowful eyes of
Gulrevaz, that was mined the Bleeding Lily, and of her engagement to tell
her story, on condition of receiving the first-born of Noorna to nurse
for a season in Aklis; and of Shibli Bagarag's restoration of towns and
monuments destroyed by his battle with Karaz; and of the constancy of
passion of Shibli Bagarag for Noorna, and his esteem for her sweetness,
and his reverence for her wisdom; and of the glory of his reign, and of
the Songs and Sentences of Noorna, and of his Laws for the protection and
upholding of women, in honour of Noorna, concerning which the Sage has
said:

Were men once clad in them, we should create
A race not following, but commanding, fate:

--of all these records, and of the reign of Baba Mustapha in Oolb, surely
the chronicles give them in fulness; and they that have searched say of
them, there is matter therein for the amusement of generations.

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS

A woman's at the core of every plot man plotteth
Arm'd with Fear the Foe finds passage to the vital part
Delay in thine undertaking Is disaster of thy own making
Every failure is a step advanced
Failures oft are but advising friends
Fear nought so much as Fear itself
How little a thing serves Fortune's turn
If thou wouldst fix remembrance--thwack!
Lest thou commence to lie--be dumb!
Like an ill-reared fruit, first at the core it rotteth
More culpable the sparer than the spared
No runner can outstrip his fate
Nought credit but what outward orbs reveal
Persist, if thou wouldst truly reach thine ends
Ripe with oft telling and old is the tale
The curse of sorrow is comparison!