NAPHTALI.
To-morrow, man?
He will not hear of rest — he comes anon —
Shall we within ?
BABUCH.
Bather let 's wait,
And scmtinize him as he mounts the street.
Since yon denote him so remarkable,
You 've whetted my desire.
NAPHTALI.
A blind, old man,
Mayhap is all you 'U find him — spent with travel,
His raiment fouled with dust, his sandaled feet
Boad-bruised by stone and bramble. But his face! —
Majestic with long fall of doud-white beard,
And hoary wreath of hair — oh, it is one
Already kissed by angels.
BABUCH.
Look, there limps
little Manasseh, bloated as his purse.
And wrinkled as a frost-pinched fruit. I hear
His last loan to the Syndic will result
In quadrupling his wealth. Good Lord ! what luck
Blesses some folk, while good men stint and sweat
