Münîrî's ghazal woven with proverbs: tears spent as white coin on the black lock, a heart told that he who gives the soul takes it back, and the comfort of a lasting good name.
Cûdî's kıta on the mismatch between literature and life: authors who create imaginary people who neither eat nor drink, angelic heroes, and the ill-mannered, ill-faced figures outside.
A ghazal that opens with a beloved gone off in a temper: moods of reproach and coquetry, a thousand words not worth a hair, a parallel couplet, and a lover undone by one look.
Mihrî Hatun's six-stanza murabba of reproach, with an allusion to Joseph and Zulaykha, addressed to a beloved who listened to the rival: "Ben de senden vâz geldüm".
Münîrî's ghazal: a liver turned into a beehive full of blood, eyelashes like coral, the saying "when fate comes, the eye goes blind", and a candle that shines once its head is cut.
Cûdî's münacat: a servant who wishes to stay hidden in God's knowledge, the curtain of a whitening beard, hope tied to mercy rather than deeds, and a heart asking to be woken before death.
The lover came upon a moon-faced one, and his morning turned to evening. A single glance brings disaster on his head, and the rival's breath, like bad air, gives him fever.
Mihrî Hatun's murabba bidding farewell to a beloved setting out on a journey, on the refrain "I commend you to God"; the name İskender ties it to the İskender Çelebi story.
Münîrî's ghazal with the refrain "çeker": a heart reciting a litany on strands of hair, a drunken lock, a breeze bearing scents, the gallows, and a libertine who carries the jar.
Cûdî's spring ghazal on the nightingale and the rose: spring's beak reaching to the rose's mouth, a nightingale voicing the rose's silent laughter, delight in the thorn bed, and a combing breeze.
The breeze lifts the lover like a speck of dust to the beloved's door, so his gratitude runs "from earth to sky". In another couplet the Anka is hunted with a gnat's net.
Mihrî Hatun's murabba of reproach to a faithless beloved, "I have given you up"; its refrain is almost identical to that of a murabba by Tâcî-zâde Cafer Çelebi.
Münîrî's ghazal with the refrain "-sıdur": hair black as night like Leylâ and a Mecnun heart, a lip that eats the blood-money, a brow as compass, and the poet as the eyes' price.
Cûdî's sceptical kıta on children and offspring: children raised for the calamity of the times, begetting from nature's compulsion not love, marriage before witnesses, and tribal rivalry.
A short ghazal of a weak lover who will count himself a champion if he saves his life: enriched rhyme, a dry autumn leaf, a waning moon of hope and bones that would hurt the beloved's foot.
Mihrî Hatun's tahmis on Necâtî Bey's ghazal with the redif "-ına"; according to one study, the earliest known tahmis written on a ghazal of Necâtî.
Münîrî's ghazal rhyming in "-îde": a rosebud-lipped cypress, a beloved chosen among beauties, wine distilled from tears, a lover like ney and harp, and a body sodden with damp.
Cûdî's frank kıta of counsel to young men: boys sowing on the ground a seed whose worth they do not know, the simile of a gun that goes off before aim, and a teacher's warning.
Mihrî Hatun's four-part terci‘-i bend, offered to Prince Ahmed as a festival greeting, asks in its linking couplet, "Who is he? Sultan Ahmed, son of Sultan Bayezid."
Münîrî's ghazal rhyming in "-îne": an arrowhead hung in the breast like a mirror, the heart as a treasure chest, a gathering that is no Friday mosque, and Canopus and carnelian.
Cûdî's morning poem to Mount Olympus seen from Salonica: the sun's blush on the snowy peak, a white-haired old man diving into the water, the mountain of legends, and the geology of its birth.
Mihrî Hatun's 29-couplet mesnevi on the oneness of God, each couplet opening with a letter of the Arabic alphabet; it turns from doctrine to advice on repentance and to prayer.
Münîrî's ghazal with the refrain "ider": longing for the cypress and a flood of annihilation, a life made whole by the lip, dust above the houris' kohl, and the stranger's prayer.
Cûdî's sunset poem from the Olympus series: islands, gravestones, lions, crocodiles, a royal table, a ball and a pulpit seen in gilded clouds, and an evening that never repeats itself.
The ghazal is tied to the Night of the Ascension and names the beloved "a moon-faced Mustafa". The sky shows its moon in envy; the lover would rather see her face than Paradise.
Mihrî Hatun's fifty-one-couplet mesnevi to the vizier Ali Pasha, with ghazal and kaside sections set inside it, asking him from Amasya to present her case to the sultan.
Münîrî's ghazal that opens like a prayer and turns to the beloved: a gleam that fills eighteen thousand worlds, a breast that is a hut of sorrows, and a wide world that is a prison.
Cûdî's poem from the Olympus series on the red of sunset: the sun drawing back like a restive horse, a flood of blood, a fire on the horizon, and the gulf turned into a salon of red broadcloth.
Mihrî Hatun's single couplet, preserved in three manuscripts, in which an eye weeping under the cruelty of fate is dyed with blood and called Sürhâb, "red water."
Münîrî's ghazal woven with proverbs: a prayer for death answered at the sight of a face, the path that water cuts, and tears that, drop by drop, become a lake to drown the lover.
Cûdî's moonlight poem from the Olympus series: night's Leylâ whitening Kays's fortune, the moon as silver comb and handleless axe, a road of light from Hortaç to Olympus, and sea and air as siblings.
Mihrî Hatun's single couplet praising the first down on the beloved's cheek as fresh basil that has newly sprung up in a rose garden and adorned it.
Münîrî's ghazal: tears and blood veiling the eye at the moment of union, a rival who throws ashes in the eyes, withering cypresses, and a lover crawling to the door like the sun.
Cûdî's ghazal added as an appendix to his moonlight poem: the moon as an offended beauty, a comb thrown in the sky's face, a brow like dawn under the forelock, and a nightingale learning it by heart.
Mihrî Hatun's single couplet in which the fine down along the edge of the beloved's lip is likened to ants swarming over a sugared pâlûde dessert.
Münîrî's only ghazal with the refrain "virür": a sugar lip that feeds the parrot of the soul, a face that polishes the soul's eye, and a beauty that leaves no need for candle or lamp.
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