In the sweet spring a grassy bank I sought,
And thither wine, and a fair Houri brought;
And, though the people called me graceless dog,
Gave not to Paradise another thought!
Sweet is rose-ruddy wine in goblets gay,
And sweet are lute and harp and roundelay;
But for the zealot who ignores the cup,
'Tis sweet when he is twenty leagues away!
Life, void of wine, and minstrels with their lutes,
And the soft murmurs of Irákian flutes,
Were nothing worth: I scan the world and see:
Save pleasure, life yields only bitter fruits.
84. C. L. N. A. B. I. J.Batar, a contraction. See Bl. Prosody, p. 10.
85. N.The MSS. have a variation of this. Note Khŭsh.
86. L. N. See an answer to this in No. 97.