Quae prius multum facilis movebat Cardines. Audis minus et minus iam: ‘Me tuo longas pereunte noctes, Lydia, dormis?’
Invicem moechos anus arrogantis Flebis in solo levis angiportu, Thracio bacchante magis sub inter- lunia vento,
Cum tibi flagrans amor et libido, Quae solet matres furiare equorum, Saeviet circa iecur ulcerosum, Non sine questu,
Laeta quod pubes hedera virenti Gaudeat pulla magis atque myrto, Aridas frondes hiemis sodali Dedicet Hebro. ---- Now the young men come less often, violently beating your shutters, with blow after blow, or stealing away your sleep, while the door sits tight, hugging the threshold,
yet was once known to move its hinges, more than readily. You’ll hear, less and less often now: ‘Are you sleeping, Lydia, while your lover dies in the long night?’
Old, in your turn, you’ll bemoan coarse adulterers, as you tremble in some deserted alley, while the Thracian wind rages, furiously, through the moonless nights,
while flagrant desire, libidinous passion, those powers that will spur on a mare in heat, will storm all around your corrupted heart, ah, and you’ll complain,
that the youths, filled with laughter, take more delight in the green ivy, the dark of the myrtle, leaving the withering leaves to this East wind, winter’s accomplice.
>>7644329 Hafez has some lovely stuff. Last night, as half asleep I dreaming lay, Half naked came she in her little shift, With tilted glass, and verses on her lips; Narcissus-eyes all shining for the fray, Filled full of frolic to her wine-red lips, Warm as a dewy rose, sudden she slips Into my bed – just in her little shift.
Said she, half naked, half asleep, half heard, With a soft sigh betwixt each lazy word, ‘Oh my old lover, do you sleep or wake!’ And instant I sat upright for her sake, And drank whatever wine she poured for me – Wine of the tavern, or vintage it might be Of Heaven’s own vine: he surely were a churl Who refused wine poured out by such a girl, A double traitor he to wine and love. Go to, thou puritan! the gods above Ordained this wine for us, but not for thee; Drunkards we are by a divine decree, Yea, by the special privilege of heaven Foredoomed to drink and foreordained forgiven.
Ah! HAFIZ, you are not the only man Who promised penitence and broke down after; For who can keep so hard a promise, man, With wine and woman brimming o’er with laughter! O knotted locks, filled like a flower with scent, How have you ravished this poor penitent!
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