Since that this boast I uttered, 'Tis forty years, in fine;
“I am the least of servers At the old Magian's shrine.”

Yea, never, thanks be rendered To the old vintner's grace,
My cup hath fallen empty Of clear and shining wine

What time true topers prospered And Love in worship was,
The tavern's place of honour, God wot, was ever mine.

Though stained indeed's the patchcoat, Yet pure of skirt am I;
Nor ill, for that a toper I am, of me opine.

I am the king's hand-falcon: How did They bear from me
The memory of my nest-place Beyond the heavens nine?

'Tis pity that a bulbul Like me, so sweet of tongue,
In silence, like the lily, In such a mead should pine.

A parlous losel-fost'rer Is Shiraz clime. O where's
A mate, with whom, tent-striking, To leave this earth malign?

Under the patchcoat, Hafiz, How long wilt hide the cup?
Unto the Vizier's banquet I'll show this use of thine;

To Touranshah the blessed, Who heapeth gifts on me,
Whose boons, as with a collar, The neck of me confine.