سَكِرتُ مِن لَحظِهِ لا مِن مُدامَتِهِ

وَمالَ بِالنَومِ عَن عَيني تَمايُلُهُ

I am intoxicated by his glance, not by his wine,

And his tilting sways me to slumber.

وَما السُلافُ دَهَتني بَل سَوالِفُهُ

وَلا الشُمولُ اِزدَهَتني بَل شَمائِلُهُ

Not his drinking made me drunk, but his tales,

Nor did his fullness of days inebriate me, but his graces.

أَلوى بِعَزمِيَ أَصداغٌ لُوينَ لَهُ

وَغالَ صَبرِيَ ماتَحوي غَلائِلُهُ

My temples ache from resisting him

And my patience is gone, overwhelmed by his misdeeds.