Abū al-Ḥasan, the court companion famed as Jaḥẓa, an accomplished poet, a polished man of letters and storyteller, versed in numerous branches of learning and the witty anecdotes of his day, and an excellent singer.

Among his verses are the following:
“The world has cried out against itself—
  were there in all creation one who would heed.
How many a man who pinned his hopes on life have I laid in the earth,
  and how many a hoarder have I scattered what he amassed.” (1)

A certain king once sent him a note addressed to a money-changer, instructing that a sum be paid to him, yet nothing reached him. Jaḥẓa therefore wrote to the king, explaining the situation:
“If your gifts are only slips of paper,
  traced by fingers and palms,
and those slips do me no good,
  then here is my handwriting—take it for a million!” (2)

He also satirized a friend, censuring him for his extreme stinginess and greed:
“We have a companion who is the very paragon of miserliness,
  foremost in it, though possessed of no other merit. (3)
He invited me as a friend invites his friend;
  I came as one such as I comes to his like.
When we sat down to lunch I saw that he thought
  my eating was as though I were gnawing a piece of his own flesh.
At times he would flare up and curse his servant,
  and I knew that the anger and the cursing were on my account.
I would stealthily stretch out my hand to take a morsel,
  but he would glare askance, so I busied myself with the herbs.
At length my hand committed the crime that sealed my fate—
  for hunger had robbed me of my wits.
My right hand lunged for a chicken’s leg,
  and the leg—as my hand seized it—seized my leg in turn.” (4)

And among his forceful, excellent poetry is his saying:
“You departed—and how many a groan after a sigh
  bears witness to the sorrow I feel for you.”