Mordecai

MAKE friends with him! He is of royal line,

Although he sits in rags. Not all of thine

Array of splendor, pomp of high estate,

Can buy him from his place within the gate,

The King’s gate of thy happiness, where he,

Yes, even he, the Jew, remaineth free,

Never obeisance making, never scorn

Betraying of thy silver and new-born

Delight. Make friends with him, for unawares

The charmed secret of thy joys he bears;

Be glad, so long as his black sackcloth, late

And early, thwarts thy sun; for if in hate

Thou plottest for his blood, thy own death cry,

Not his, comes from the gallows cubits high.