THE QUATRAINS OF
Who framed the lots of quick and dead but Thou?
Who turns the troublous wheel of heaven but Thou?
Though we are sinful slaves, is it for Thee
To blame us? Who created us but Thou?
O wine, most limpid, pure, and crystalline,
Would I could drench this silly frame of mine
With thee, that passers by might think 'twas thou,
And cry, "Whence comest thou, fair master wine?"
A Shaikh beheld a harlot, and quoth he,
"You seem a slave to drink and lechery;"
And she made answer, "What I seem I am,
But, Master, are you all you seem to be?"
471. L. N. A. I.
472. L. N.