| The Soufi his snare set and open His trick-box anew hath made |
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| Ho, there, skinker! Fill the wine-cup; Pour and pass to me as well! |
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| If thy face to the moon likened, Yea, and to Perwin they've made |
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| O cypress fresh of beauty, That far'st with gracious gait |
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| All the Soufi's coin not wholly Pure from tincture of allay is |
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| My moon this week the city left; And in mine eyes a year 'tis |
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| Openly the words I utter, And heart-glad am I of it |
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| When jasmine-breathed ones lay them down To rest, they lay the dust of grieving |
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| The Messenger, letter-fraught, Who came from the land of the Friend |
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| Roses in bosom, wine in hand And she I love submiss is |
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