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Wail, bulbul, if with me Thy heart to friendship fain is
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No true loveling's she who only Waist and hair possesseth
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Drinking and mirth in secret, Things without base are they
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Ho, parrot, thou Love's mysteries That utt'rest still
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The Tongue of the pen refuseth To set forth the bale of sev'rance
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Intent, save of oppression, Thou seest, the fair hath not
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The Blood of the heart from the eye All over our face passeth
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The Wineseller's sins, If the duly the winebibbers' need doth
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Thou, by whose bright face bloometh The tulip-bed of life
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May none, like me, be shattered of the woes of separation
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