قُل لِلفَتى المعصراني لَيسَ يحسن في

مَحاسن الذات إِلّا حشمة الأَدَبِ

Tell the young man from Ma’asiran that there is no good

In the beauties of the self except the modesty of manners

لَيسَ الجَمال بِمَعشوق بِلا أَدَبٍ

لِأَنّ في الخَمر مَعنىً لَيسَ في العِنَبِ

Beauty in the beloved is naught without manners

Because wine has a meaning that grapes do not have

دَعني فَعسال هَذا القَدّ يَطعنني

ما لي سِوى رِيقك المَعسول مِن طَلَبِ

Let me be, O slim one, for this stature wounds me

What have I but your sweet spittle to seek?

أَراكَ شَهداً وَكَالخَرّوب آوِنَةً

رَطل مِن الحُلو في القِنطار مِن خَشَبِ

I see you as honey, and like dry wood kindling

A pound of sweetness in a hundredweight of wood