Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside, And naked on the Air of Heaven ride, Were't not a Shame - were't not a Shame for him In this clay carcase crippled to abide?

And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press End in what All begins and ends in - Yes; Think then you are To-day what Yesterday You were - To-morrow You shall …

'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest; The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash Strikes, and prepares it for anot…

Perplext no more with Human or Divine, To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign, And lose your fingers in the tresses of The Cypress - slender Minister of Wine.