Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;
Lest sorrow lend me words and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;
As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know;
For if I should despair, I should grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee:
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be,
That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.
tazmin
ġham tumhārā thā zindagī goyā tum ko khoyā use nahīñ khoyā fart-e-girya se jī na halkā ho bas yahī soch kar nahīñ royā ashk to ashk haiñ sharāb se bhī maiñ ne ye dāġh-e-dil nahīñ dhoyā maiñ vo kisht-e-nashāt kyoñ kāTūñ jis ko maiñ ne kabhī nahīñ boyā aabla aabla thī jaañ phir bhī bār-e-hastī
