An Easterner tasted once the wine in Europe’s glass; no wonder if he broke old vows in reckless glee.

The blood came surging up in the veins of his new-born thought: Predestination’s bond-slave he learned that man is free.

Let not thy soul be vexed with the drunkards’ noise and rout! O saki, tell me fairly, who was’t that broached this jar?

The scent of the rose showed first the way into the garden; else, how should the nightingale have known that roses are?