Xxxv

Now on the rose's palm the cup with limpid wine is brimming, And with a hundred thousand tongues the bird her praise is hymning.

Ask for a song-book, seek the wild, no time is this for knowledge; The Comment of the Comments spurn, and learning of the college,

Be it thy rule to shun mankind, and let the Phoenix monish, For the reports of hermit fame, from Káf to Káf astonish.

When yesterday our rector reeled, this sentence he propounded: "Wine is a scandal; but far worse what men's bequests have founded."

Turbid or clear, though not thy choice, drink thankfully; well knowing That all which from our Sákí flows to his free grace is owing.

Each dullard who would share my fame, each rival self-deceiver, Reminds me that at times the mat seems golden to its weaver.

Cease, Háfiz! store as ruddy gold The wit that's in thy ditty: The stampers of false coin, behold! Are bankers for the city.