| Fair ones, thus if use fo charming Still they make |
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| The Rose is come and best in Spring abideth |
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| Heart-sick ones, in whom desire is, But ability is not |
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| At the soul-adventurers' mart-head Proclamation lo! they make |
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| Roses come cull and to thorns, Soufi, that patchcoat of thine give |
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| Come, so the spirit's fragrance That I may retrace from that cheek |
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| Lo, by thy bright eye's magic, O happy-favoured fair |
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| Since that this boast I uttered, 'Tis forty years, in fine |
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| In thy footsteps' dust our faces Many a time and tide we've laid |
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| Up, skinker, and give me In hand the bowl! |
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