Page:Quatrains of Omar Khayyam (tr. Whinfield, 1883).djvu/78

22

To-day is thine to spend, but not to-morrow, Counting on morrows breedeth naught but sorrow; Oh! squander not this breath that heaven hath lent thee, Nor make too sure another breath to borrow!

'Tis labour lost thus to all doors to crawl, Take thy good fortune, and thy bad withal; Know for a surety each must play his game, As from heaven's dice-box fate's dice chance to fall.

This jug did once, like me, love's sorrows taste, And bonds of beauty's tresses once embraced, This handle, which you see upon its side, Has many a time twined round a slender waist!