Page:Quatrains of Omar Khayyam (tr. Whinfield, 1883).djvu/294

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Death finds us soiled, though we were pure at birth, With grief we go, although we came with mirth; Watered with tears, and burned with fires of woe. And, casting life to winds, we rest in earth!

To find great Jamshed's world-reflecting bowl I compassed sea and land, and viewed the whole; But, when I asked the wary sage, I learned That bowl was my own body, and my soul!

Me, cruel Queen! you love to captivate, And from a knight to a poor pawn translate; You marshal all your force to tire me out, You take my rooks with yours, and then checkmate!