He was taken prisoner on the day on which the Khānzamān was slain, and though he escaped execution he did not escape death.* His poetry is mediocre. These few verses are from his pen:—

“I have surrendered my soul and my heart, being no longer
able to bear the pain of separation from her,

What a pain is this, which has no remedy save the sur-
rendering of one's soul!
When the manifest fever of my love is not visible to her,
How shall I inform her of my secret wounds?
When that moon-like beauty walks abroad in the night in
vesture of the hue of the night
The brightness of dawn may be seen where her dress
opens at the neck.”

“I would that her breast could be cleft by my dagger
That my pure heart might see whether her heart is pure.”

“Her waist has entranced the hearts of men,
Has completely made away with the hearts of men.”