| O happy his heart is that after The lusts of the eye goeth not |
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| My heart of thy lip desire fore'er hath |
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| From the lasso of thy tress-tip Is deliverance for none |
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| Come, Soufi, off for ever Fraud's patchcoat pied draw we! |
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| Our garden in no need Of cypress and of pine is |
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| Thyself with the secret of Jemshid's cup Acquainted ill thou canst make |
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| The Love of black-eyed maids, indeed, Forth of my pate will nowise go |
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| The Violet spake to the rose last night And a goodly sign hath given |
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| Ne'er of thy watcher this heart of mine is quit |
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| Though my case, indeed, is tangled Grown by those her tresses two |
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