Shoot not my heart with glances; for I die,
Of mine own choice, before thy languorous eye.

Since passing rich thou art in loveliness,
Give me an alms; for mean and poor am I.

I am a bird, whose warblings night and morn
Are wafted from the roof-tree of the sky.

Fill up the cup; for in Love's realm, though old,
I'm young in luck o'er all men, far and nigh.

My bosom's space so full is of the Friend
That from my heart the thought of self must fly.

Except the score of minstrel and of wine,
Be nothing set to mine account on high!

In that dread hour, when none of other asks,
The vintner's bounties I shall magnify.

How long with heaven's apples, honey, milk
Wilt lure me, zealot, as a child were I?

A compact with the wine-seller I've made,
Nought but the cup in sorrow's hour to ply.

Fair fall the hour when I, for drunkenness,
Vizier and king in my content defy!

Abounding treasures in my breast I have,
Though abject in the adversary's eye.

The heart from Hafiz I withdrew what time
I took the skinker for my heart's ally.