FullReads

 

 Karshish, the picker up of learning's crumbs,
 

 The not incurious in God's handiwork
 

 (This man's flesh he hath admirably made,
 

 Blown like a bubble, kneaded like a paste,
 

 To coop up and keep down on earth a space
 

 That puff of vapour from his mouth, man's soul)
 

 --To Abib, all sagacious in our art,
 

 Breeder in me of what poor skill I boast,
 

 Like me inquisitive how pricks and cracks
 

 Befall the flesh through too much stress and strain, 10
 

 Whereby the wily vapour fain would slip
 

 Back and rejoin its source before the term,--
 

 And aptest in contrivance (under God)
 

 To baffle it by deftly stopping such
 

 The vagrant Scholar to his Sage at home
 

 Sends greeting (health and knowledge, fame with peace)
 

 Three samples of true snake-stone--rarer still,
 

 One of the other sort, the melon-shaped,
 

 (But fitter, pounded fine, for charms than drugs)
 

 And writeth now the twenty-second time.       20
 

My journeyings were brought to Jericho:
Thus I resume. Who studious in our art
Shall count a little labour unrepaid?
I have shed sweat enough, left flesh and bone
On many a flinty furlong of this land.
Also, the country-side is all on fire
With rumours of a marching hitherward:
Some say Vespasian cometh, some, his son.
A black lynx snarled and pricked a tufted ear:
Lust of my blood inflamed his yellow balls: 30
I cried and threw my staff and he was gone.
Twice have the robbers stripped and beaten me,
And once a town declared me for a spy;
But at the end, I reach Jerusalem,
Since this poor covert where I pass the night,
This Bethany, lies scarce the distance thence
A man with plague-sores at the third degree
Runs till he drops down dead. Thou laughest here!
‘Sooth, it elates me, thus reposed and safe,
To void the stuffing of my travel-scrip 40
And share with thee whatever Jewry yields.
A viscid choler is observable
In tertians, I was nearly bold to say;
And falling-sickness hath a happier cure
Than our school wots of: there’s a spider here
Weaves no web, watches on the ledge of tombs,
Sprinkled with mottles on an ash-gray back;
Take five and drop them … but who knows his mind,
The Syrian run-a-gate I trust this to?
His service payeth me a sublimate 50
Blown up his nose to help the ailing eye.
Best wait: I reach Jerusalem at morn,
There set in order my experiences,
Gather what most deserves, and give thee all–
Or I might add, Judaea’s gum-tragacanth
Scales off in purer flakes, shines clearer-grained,
Cracks ‘twixt the pestle and the porphyry.
In fine exceeds our produce. Scalp-disease
Confounds me, crossing so with leprosy:
Thou hadst admired one sort I gained at Zoar– 60
But zeal outruns discretion. Here I end.