"Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane, The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again: How oft hereafter rising shall she look Through this same Garden after me—in vain!"

"I tell you this—When, started from the Goal, Over the flaming shoulders of the Soul Plots the Eternal Saki from his Bowl Ahmad and Mahmud, ere he reach the Goal."

"Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, And wash the Body whence the Life has died, And in a winding-sheet of Vine-leaf wrapt, So bury me by some sweet Garden-side."

"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it."

"And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel, And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour—well, I often wonder what the Vintners buy One half so precious as the stuff they sell."