| From the lasso of thy tress-tip Is deliverance for none |
|
|
| Come, Soufi, off for ever Fraud's patchcoat pied draw we! |
|
|
| Our garden in no need Of cypress and of pine is |
|
|
| Thyself with the secret of Jemshid's cup Acquainted ill thou canst make |
|
|
| The Love of black-eyed maids, indeed, Forth of my pate will nowise go |
|
|
| The Violet spake to the rose last night And a goodly sign hath given |
|
|
| Ne'er of thy watcher this heart of mine is quit |
|
|
| Though my case, indeed, is tangled Grown by those her tresses two |
|
|
| Such am I that the tavern-nook A hermitage for me is |
|
|
| Hark to the harp and the ghittern, What notification they make |
|
|