Old Khayyám, say you, is a debauchee;If only you were half so good as he!He sins no sins but gentle drunkenness,Great-hearted mirth, and kind adultery.But yours the cold heart, and the murderous tongue,The wintry soul that hates to hear a song,The close-shut fist, the mean and measuring eye,And all the little poisoned ways of wrong.

Dead yesterdays and unborn tomorrows, why fret about it, if today be sweet.

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long, have done my credit in this World much wrong; have drowned my Glory in a shallow Cup, and sold my Reputation for a Song.

I wonder what the vintners buy one half so precious as the stuff they sell.

A drink is shorter than a tale

Yes, the first morning of creation wrote what the last dawn of reckoning shall read.

To be free of belief and unbelief is my religion.