Page:Quatrains of Omar Khayyam (tr. Whinfield, 1883).djvu/108

52

The very wine a myriad forms sustains, And to take shapes of plants and creatures deigns But deem not that its essence ever dies, Its forms may perish, but its self remains.

'Tis naught but smoke this people's fire doth bear, For my well-being not a soul doth care; With hands fate makes me lift up in despair, I grasp men's skirts, but find no succor there.

This bosom friend, on whom you so rely, Seems to clear wisdom's eyes an enemy; Choose not your friends from this rude multitude, Their converse is a plague 'tis best to fly.