Iv

Fools be they that inveigh 'gainst Mahomet, Who's but a moral of love's monarchy. But a dull adamant, as straw by jet, He in an iron chest was drawn on high. In midst of Mecca's temple roof, some say, He now hangs without touch or stay at all. That Mahomet is she to whom I pray; May ne'er man pray so ineffectual! Mine eyes, love's strange exhaling adamants, Un'wares, to my heart's temple's height have wrought The iron idol that compassion wants, Who my oft tears and travails sets at nought. Iron hath been transformed to gold by art; Her face, limbs, flesh and all, gold; save her heart.