غزل شمارهٔ 1638

My mother was fortune, my father generosity and bounty; I am joy, son of joy, son of joy, son of joy.

Behold, the Marquis of Glee has attained felicity; this city and plain are filled with soldiers and drums and flags.

If I encounter a wolf, he becomes a moonfaced Joseph; if I go down into a well, it converts into a Garden of Eram.

He whose heart is as iron and stone out of miserliness is now changed before me into a H. ¯atem of the age in generosity and bounty.

Dust becomes gold and pure silver in my hand; how then should the temptation of gold and silver waylay me?

I have an idol such that, were his sweet scent scattered abroad, even an idol of stone would receive life through joy.

Sorrow has died for joy in him of “may God bind your consolation”; how should not such a sword strike the neck of sorrow?

By tyranny he seizes the soul of whom he desires; justices are all slaves of such injustice and tyranny.

What is that mole on that face? Should it manifest itself, out of desire for it forthwith maternal aunt would be estranged from paternal [uncle].

I said, “If I am done and send my story, will you finish it and expound it?” He answered, “Yes.”