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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 Bookʹs 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 live, Though scum at bottom of its bowl Is always pure and never foul.