When thirty years and two months had gone by
The Grace and glory of the Sháh were spent.
He called Urmuzd. “The freshness of my face,”
He said, “is sere; be vigilant, be world-lord,
And ever rule with justice, but be ware
Of putting trust in sovereignty; peruse
Both day and night the volume of Jamshíd;
Do only what is just and good; be thou
The lowly's shelter and the mighty's Grace;
Toy little with dínárs, be bounteous, just,

And glorious; exclaim not at slight ills
If thou wouldst have good fortune as thy friend,
And keep in mind my counsels, every whit,
As I myself possess them from Ardshír.”
He spake, the colour paled upon his cheek,
The heart of that wise man grew full of anguish.
What can this Wayside Hostel do for thee?
Wouldst hug renown? Wouldst fill thy treasury?
A narrow coffin will be all thy spoil,
Some worthless one will batten on thy toil,
Thou wilt be clean forgotten by thy sons,
Thy nearest kinsfolk and companions,
The heritage wherein thou'lt have thy share
Is that of malediction, for where'er
Bezoar is the poison too is there.
Turn then to God and multiply His praise,
Who feedeth thee and guideth all thy ways.