We left them to the howling beasts to tear at what was left of them, and afterward they shall roast in a fire whose depths sear.

By your life, the horsemen of Mālik and all their followers did not even wheel about when we met at Badr.

ʿUbayda ibn al-Ḥārith ibn ʿAbd al-Muṭṭalib is reported to have said—on the Day of Badr, when his leg was severed in the duel he fought with Hamzah and ʿAlī against ʿUtbah, Shaybah, and al-Walīd ibn ʿUtbah—though Ibn Hishām rejects the attribution:

A clash of ours will reach the people of Mecca,
and it will rouse even the one who kept himself afar.

Of ʿUtbah, when he turned his back, and of Shaybah after him—
none of it pleased ʿUtbah’s eldest son.

If you sever my leg, I remain a Muslim,
through it hoping for a life that is near with God—

with houris, statuesque and pure,
in the Highest Garden, reserved for men of lofty rank.

For that I bartered a life whose sweetness I had sucked to the bone,
spent it quickly until the meaner world was gone.

Then the All-Merciful honoured me, by His gracious favour,
with a robe of Islam that covered every fault.

I felt no dislike for fighting them
on the morning when equals answered the caller’s cry.

Nor, when they asked the Prophet, did they want anyone but us—
we three—until we came forth to the challenge.

We met them like lions prancing with spears,
fighting, for the sake of the All-Merciful, those who defied Him.

Our feet did not leave the spot—
we three—until they were driven to their appointed deaths.

Ibn Isḥāq also records that Ḥassān ibn Thābit said, censuring al-Ḥārith ibn Hishām for fleeing on the Day of Badr and leaving his people without defense:

A maiden glimpsed in sleep has undone your heart;
she soothes her bedfellow with a cool, ever-smiling face.

Like musk mingled with the water of a rain-cloud,
or aged wine the colour of freshly-spilt blood.

Her perfume pouch billows, its reed-staves neatly set—
a simple girl, in no hurry to grant her favours.

She is rounded, built upon yielding flesh;
when she sits, your pestle rests on polished marble.

So languid is she that she can hardly make her way to the couch,
slim of body and graceful of form.

By day I never grow weary of remembering her,
and by night my dreams are shared with her.

I swore I would forget her and leave her memory
until my bones lie hidden in the grave.

Woe to the scolder who reproaches out of ignorance;
for passion’s sake I have defied my own reproaching soul.

She came to me at daybreak, after sleep had passed,
as the swift events of time drew near.