أيسيرُ مدحي في الأمير وكلُّهُ

يا للرجال مُؤرَّجٌ بعتابِ

My praise of the prince goes on, while he

O men, is clad in robes of blaming me.

ما قلت قافيةً تخبِّر أنهُ

فيما يُثيب أثابني بثوابِ

No rhyme have I composed that tells him so,

Yet for my thanks he gives me gifts, you see.

ظنِّي لئن أنا دام لي حرمانُهُ

لألقَّبَنَّ بشاعرٍ كذابِ

I think, though now deprived of his regard,

I will be named a poet, falsely.

يا بؤسَ للشعراءِ يسهرُ ليلُهمْ

ويُلقَّبون بأسوَأِ الألقابِ

Woe to the poets! Their nights sleepless are,

Yet branded with the worst names they will be.