Classic Poem

I am a drinker of wine, why does the Priest quarrel with me?
Our natures are made by Fate, would that I could make his like mine!
Well dost thou say, my adviser, blessings upon thy speech;
Well dost thou mean, but by words hast thou ever yet turned the torrent?
Those have gone to Heaven who had neither knowledge nor sense,
Others have gone to Hell whose excellence was their boast.
Of what profit to Abujahal the words of the Prophet Mahommed?
Who will polish the mirror that God has covered with rust?
The Monk who sits in his cell, tell me what thereby is his gain?
Why dost thou thus straiten this spacious world for thyself?
I would have love's troubles whatever may be my religion.
They are but thine own words that thou tellest thus to me.
Hither come quickly, minstrel, and raise the New Year's song,
Sweet heart-soothing strains bring from the lute, the pipe, and the harp.