He is a Shīrāzī, and is now employed in the imperial library as ²⁸⁴ a librarian. He has a merry and nimble wit and occasionally writes poetry. The following verses are his:—

“I am fallen, like a helpless bird, into the cage
My broken heart is like a soundless bell.
Though I am more contemptible than an ant or a fly
I am suffocated by the straitness of the two worlds.”

Another quatrain.

“We have learnt the way to a cure for ourselves,
We have heaped up the harvest of our transgressions,
We have kindled the fire of hell for ourselves,
We have consumed ourselves with the fire of our own sins.”

Another quatrain.

“So long as the locks of the beautiful curl,
So long as the gestures and gait of the lovely are alluring,
So long as the arrow of the glance is in the brow of cruelty,
I die and live again each moment.”

A couplet.

“There is no rose in the rose-garden of this world which is
not tinged with the blood of some nightingale.”

In describing a horse he has written:

“From his great pace as he gallops, his limbs
Close on one another like drops of water flowing together.”