In my craze that knows no bound, of the Mosque I made the round: Thank God that outer vest of Shrine; still was left untorn and fine.

I wish good luck and pleasure great, to all, of faith who always prate: But all the jurists of the town with one accord upon me frown.

Men, like Plato, still roam about betwixt belief and utter doubt: Men endowed with reason, aye, ever on the heights do stay.

Unless the Book’s each verse and part be revealed unto your heart; interpreters, though much profound, its subtle points cannot expound.

The joy that Frankish wine does give lasts not for long nor always lives; though scum at bottom of its bowl is always pure and never foul.