| Since that thine image we have, Of liquor for us what need is? |
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| Go, o zealot! Never bid me Unto heaven; sooth to say |
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| No man hath seen thy visage, Though many an one thy spy is |
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| The Bulbul at dawn To the wind of the East his lament made |
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| She bore away my heart And hid from me her face made |
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| Fair ones, thus if use fo charming Still they make |
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| The Rose is come and best in Spring abideth |
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| Heart-sick ones, in whom desire is, But ability is not |
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| At the soul-adventurers' mart-head Proclamation lo! they make |
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| Roses come cull and to thorns, Soufi, that patchcoat of thine give |
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