The following may be added, as characteristic of the spirit of Omar Khayyám:

N. 2.
Thou! chosen one from earth’s full muster-roll to me!
Dearer than my two eyes, than even my soul to me!
— Though nothing than life more precious we esteem,
Yet dearer art thou, my love, a hundred-fold to me!
 
N. 4.
Nothing but pain and wretchedness we earn in
This world that for a moment we sojourn in:
We go! — no problem solved alas! discerning;
Myriad regrets within our bosoms burning!
 
N. 5.
O master! grant us only this, we prithee:
Preach not! but mutely guide to bliss, we prithee!
“We walk not straight?” — Nay, it is thou who squintest!
Go, heal thy sight, and leave us in peace, we prithee:
 
N. 6.
Hither! come hither, love! my heart doth need thee;
Come, and expound a riddle I will read thee.
The earthen jar bring too,— and let us drink, love!
Ere, turned to clay, to earthen ware they knead thee!
 
N. 7.
Wash me when dead in the juice of the vine, old friends!
Let your funeral service be drinking and wine, old friends!
And if you would meet me again when the Doomsday comes,
Search the dust of the tavern, and sift from it mine, old friends!
 
N. 13.
Howe’er with beauty’s hue and bloom endow’d I be,
Of tulip-cheek and cypress-form though proud I be;
Yet know I not why the Limner chose that, here, in this
Mint-house of clay, amid the painted crowd I be!
 
N. 57.
Unworthy of Hell, unfit for Heaven, I be —
God knows what clay He used when He moulded me!
Foul as a punk, ungodly as a monk,
No faith, no world, no hope of Heaven I see!
 
N. 88.
Wicked, men call me ever; yet blameless I!
Think how it is, ye Saints! — My life, ye cry,
Breaks all Heaven’s laws — Good lack! I have no sin,
That needs reproach, save wenching and drink! — then, why?
 
N. 388.
Oh! Thou hast shattered to bits my jar of wine, my Lord!
Thou hast shut me out from the gladness that was mine, my Lord!
Thou hast spilt and scattered my wine upon the clay —
O dust in my mouth! if the drunkness be not Thine, my Lord!

According to the testimony of an old MS., according to M. Nicolas, the third line of this stanza ought to run thus:

“I drink the wine; ’t is Thou who feel’st its power —”