غزل شمارهٔ 200

Thou knowest what tale that the harp and the lyre make? Secretly drink ye wine that thee precious they may make.

The honor of love and the splendor of lovers, they take: The censure of the young; and the reproof of the old, they make.

Nothing gained but a darken heart, yet, Wrong in this illusion that someday gold they make.

They say: Utter ye not love’s mystery; hear it not: It is a difficult story, whereof relation, they make.

Out of the door, we being deceived by a hundred deceits, Let us see, within the screen, what device they make.

rime’s vexation, they give the Pir of the Magians: Behold what with the Pir, these holy travelers make!

One can purchase a hundred honors with half a glance, In this act, deficiency, lovely ones make.

With effort and struggle, a crowd established union with the Beloved: Reliance on Fate, another crowd make.

In short, on Time’s permanency, rely not: For this is the workshop wherein change they make.

Drink wine. For the Shaikh, and Hafez, and the Mufti and the Mohtaseb, All when thou lookest well fraud make.