| Whoso the tale of thy scent, By th' East wind up-brought, heareth |
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| How long, o heart, wilt shed my blood? Before the eye take shame at last |
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| If it be granted me of Fate With yonder charmer to foregather |
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| A Goodly saying have I heard, Of Canaan's patriarch grey bespoken |
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| The Tale of cypress, tulip, rose By mead and rill betideth |
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| Yesternight the angels knocking At the winehouse-door I spied |
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| Skinker, youth's capital here come bring |
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| Cupbearer, come! Lo, of desire for thy service I die |
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| To the new blown rose the bulbul Spake this word at break of day |
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| To me the East wind yesternight The tidings rare hath brought |
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