XXXI
He smiled at self, and, smiling, show’d his teeth,
And seeing his white teeth, he smiled the more;
Lifted his eyebrows, spurn’d the path beneath,
Show’d teeth again, and smiled as heretofore,
Until he knock’d at the magician’s door;
Where, till the porter answer’d, might be seen,
In the clear panel more he could adore,—
His turban wreathed of gold, and white, and green,
Mustachios, ear-ring, nose-ring, and his sabre keen.