Page:The Sacred Books and Early Literature of the East, Volume 08.djvu/111



O Love! before you pass death's portal through,

And potters make their jugs of me and you,

Pour from this jug some wine, of headache void,

And fill your cup, and fill my goblet too!

O Love! while yet you can, with tender art,

Lift sorrow's burden from your lover's heart;

Your wealth of graces will not always last,

But slip from your possession, and depart!

Bestir thee, ere death's cup for thee shall flow,

And blows of ruthless fortune lay thee low;

Acquire some substance here, there is none there,

For those who thither empty-handed go!

Who framed the lots of quick and dead but Thou?

Who turns the troublous wheel of heaven but Thou?

Though we are sinful slaves, is it for Thee

To blame us? Who created us but Thou?

O wine, most limpid, pure, and crystalline,

Would I could drench this silly frame of mine

With thee, that passers-by might think 'twas thou,

And cry, "Whence comest thou, fair master wine?"

A Shaikh beheld a harlot, and quoth he,

"You seem a slave to drink and lechery ";

And she made answer, "What I seem I am,

But, Master, are you all you seem to be? "