Albeit a thousand foemen To work my ruin try,
If thou be my friend, Beloved, No whit of foes reck I.

'Tis nought but the hope of thine union That holdeth me still on life;
And else, in the fear of thy sev'rance, An hundred deaths I die.

Except from the breath of the breezes Each moment thy scent I smell,
Each breath, like the rose, for sorrow, My wede I rend in twy.

Do these my two eyes from thine image E'er sever in sleep? Away!
Or patient, from thee when parted, My heart is it? God deny!

A wound at thy hand is better Than healing from other folk
And poison from thee than balsams, Which other hands apply.

For me, to be slain of thy sword-stroke Were everlasting life,
By token my soul delighteth Thy buffets to aby.

Nay, turn not away! If thou smite me With sabre, my head a shield
I'll make nor aside from thy halter My hands will I awry.

How, marry, shall every vision Conceive thee as thou art?
For after his measure of vision Each only may descry.

When Hafiz the face of abjection Laid in the dust of thy door,
Then first did he wax exalted Of worth in the general eye.