لا تَشرَبِ الراحاَ غَيرَ مَمزوجِ

مِن كَفِّ ظَبيٍ أَغَنَّ مَغنوجِ

Drink not pure wine from the hand

Drink not the wine unless it is tempered,

Of a bard, for it makes one sing.

From the hand of a gazelle, soft-voiced and coy.

تَسقيكَ عَيناهُ مِثلَ راحَتِهِ

مِن شَغَفٍ في الفُؤادِ مَولوجِ

His eyes will give you to drink

His eyes serve you drink, just as his palm does,

As he is transported with joy.

With passion that pierces the depth of the heart.

تَقصُرُ عَينُ البَصيرِ عَنهُ وَكَم

دَهرٍ رَماهُ بِطولِ تَخليجِ

The keenest eyes cannot discern it.

The eye of the beholder falls short of his beauty,

Many a century has it thrown into turmoil.

And fate has cast him into long bewilderment.

وَكَم قَتيلٍ وَلاسِلاحَ لَهُ

غَيرُ الخَلاشيلِ وَالدَماليجِ

And many are slain by it, weaponless,

How many has he slain, though he bears no weapon

With only their looks and their charms.

Save for his anklets and bracelet bands.