Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire. — Omar Khayyám

A book, a woman, and a flask of wine:

The three make heaven for me; it may be thine

Is some sour place of singing cold and bare —

But then, I never said thy heaven was mine.

Would but some wing'ed Angel ere too late

Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate,

And make the stern Recorder otherwise

Enregister, or quite obliterate!

What! from his helpless Creature be repaid

Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay'd —

Sue for a Debt he never did contract,

And cannot answer — Oh, the sorry trade!