| 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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| My heart of a gipsy-like charmer, A trickstress, is captive made |
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| The Festival day to-day is And I've for to-day forecast |
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| Virtue, piety, observance, Seek from drunken me not. Nay |
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| Chance to me, at dawn, of drinking Beakers twain of wine hath fallen |
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