The Soufi his snare set and open His trick-box anew hath made;
Ay, ready to bubble the heavens, That juggler of blue, hath made.

But the cup-and-ball player of Fortune Will e'en break the egg in his cap,
Who bold sleight of hand with the folk Of the secret to do hath made.

Come, cupbearer, prithee give wine; The Soufis' fair loveling is come
And of beauty and grace, the coquette, Display in our view hath made.

O whence is this minstrel, himself Who addressed to the mode of Irác
And then by the road of Hijáz His home return who hath made?

Come quick, o my heart! Let us go: Let us flee to the refuge of God
From the mischief which he of short sleeves And long hand thereto hath made!

Dissembling use not; for the game Of Love if one play not aright,
In the face of his heart Love the door Of meaning shut-to hath made.

That day when the forefront of Truth Shall manifest be, put to shame
Shall he be who his feet in the path Of pretence to ensue hath made.

Where goest thou, partridge so fair? Stay; be not deluded, because
The hypocrite-cat a pretence Of devoutness untrue hath made.

Nay, Hafiz, the topers blame not; For God in Eternity's prime
Of pious hypocrisy quit The winebibbing crew hath made.