قَد أَسحَبُ الزِقُّ يَأباني وَأُكرِهُهُ

حَتّى لَهُ في أَديمِ الأَرضِ أُخدودُ

The bends have begun to pull me, though I abhor them,

I drag the wineskin—though it resists, I force it on, / Until deep in the earth's skin a furrow is engraved.

Until they leave furrows in the skin of the earth.

Indeed, delights are of all kinds, raised and sustained / By flutes to which the warbling lute is tightly bound.

إِنَّ المَلاهِيَ أَصنافٌ يُشَيِّدُها

نايٌ بِهِ المِزهَرُ الغِرّيدُ مَعقودُ

Pastimes are of many sorts which they construct;

I do not journey with the draught unless it has / A driver urging on the caravan with borrowed verse.

A reed-pipe with it, the warbler twitters, knotted.

I strike no blows against the merchant for his wine, / For in my view, no thing existing is too dear a price.

لا أَرحَلُ الراحَ إِلّا أَن يَكونَ لَها

حادٍ بِمُنتَحَلِ الأَشعارِ غِرّيدُ

I move not a limb except for a wind whose nature

Awake the oud to speech, for long has been its hush; / True pleasure speaks not till the oud begins to speak.

Is a gift for stealing songs - a twittern warbler.

Its worth among the people of refinement stands / Like the Barmakids' own worth, by generosity exalted.

وَلا أُلاطِمُ دونَ الخَمرِ تاجِرَها

لِأَنَّ ظَنِّيَ أَن لَم يَغلُ مَوجودُ

Nor do I reproach, without wine, its purveyor,

Since I assume no honey has ever gone sour.

فَاِستَنطِقِ العودَ قَد طالَ السُكوتُ بِهِ

لا يَنطِقُ اللَهوُ حَتّى يَنطِقَ العودُ

Coax the lute - it's been silent too long -

Revelry speaks not 'til the lute has spoken.

وَفَضلُهُ عِندَ أَهلِ الظُرفِ كُلِّهُمُ

فَضلُ البَرامِكِ أَن عَلّاهُمُ الجودُ

Its virtue, in the eyes of every genteel man, is

The virtue of heavy rain: it makes generosity gush.