Dialogue between three wise persians

Wikipedia has this to say, within a certain article:

"This account is particularly interesting in light of a possibly apocryphal story recounted by Jorge Luis Borges. In this story a pact is formed between a young Nizam al-Mulk (at that time known as Abdul Khassem) and his two friends, Omar Khayyam and Hassan-i-Sabbah. Their agreement stated that if one should rise to prominence, that they would help the other two to do likewise. Nizam al-Mulk was the first to do this when he was appointed vizier to the sultan Alp Arslan. To fulfil the pact he offered both friends positions of rank within the court. Omar refused the offer, asking instead to be given the means to continue his studies indefinitely. This Nizam did, as well as building him an observatory. Although Hassan, unlike Omar, decided to accept the appointment offered to him, he was forced to flee after plotting to dispose Nizam as vizier. Subsequently, Hassan came upon and conquered the fortress of Alamut, from where he established the Assassins."

I have, of course, read that bit of Borges.

'We find ourselves in the grand madrasah of Cairo; or, in more
detail, in a secluded courtyard within it, where rising marble
steps on four sides surround a grand fountain in Roman style. Here,
slanting roofs the colour of sandstone lean over the courtyard,
providing the shade only the twin heirs of Jamshid and Zohák can
appreciate, accompanied by fine palm trees with large,
overshadowing leaves. Above the roofs of the university, we may see
a dozen towers of darkness, whose innumarable steps even now a
dozen muezzins climb. Ignorant or unheeding of this, three young
persians, whose vivid eyes reveal wisdom unbecoming of their age,
recline on the marble steps, their heads cooled by the spirits of
shadows, and their feet warmed by them of the sun. In their hands
they indolently hold cups and glasses filled with ice-cold water,
topped with chunks and cubes of the transparent mirage itself; a
boundless luxury to have. Suddenly, the fairest of the persian
youth begins to exclaim with joyful air:'

Nizam Al-Mulk: You harsh master, who laid low the pride of Babylon,
and you who obliterated the glories of Rome, have you now forsaken
your cursed habits? Am I asleep or awake, and if asleep - whence
these dreams that would befit a caliph? Do you allow friendship
such as this, friends like these, only to take them away; or is
this finally the promised temptation that will rival the paradise?
Omar Khayyam: I hear you! I love my mother; for my father I have
in store but praise; my brothers truly deserve the name of that
word; but you - how many virgins would have to pass, for them to
steal but one gaze from me now? Quickly! Invigorate your memory,
lest this sight shall soon fracture and shatter!
Hassan i-Sabbah: Bold words I hear, and vows of power! But are
they not deserved, now if never else? The eagle has its valley and
mountain, but I would not trade your presence for its wings!
Nizam: You vindicate me, though I would need no vindication. Did
not the damed philosopher Epicurus abandon his gods for this: for
the pleasure of cold water, enjoyed amongst his boundless friends?
Hassan: The shadow of morality ever hangs above the pleasure. Can
you blame Epicurus for trading idolatry for atheism? I think not.
Omar: Ice-water among the young, steaming tea among the old;
Epicurus is close to my heart as well. Though he be damned, I hope
he shall enjoy bathing in cold water in his damnation.
Nizam: Epicurus knew no paradise, he made the right choice; to
enjoy the company of closest friends, in the life he saw as
limited. We, whose sight scans the infinite, must be content with
limited friendship. All earthly things come to an end: madrasahs
close, and friends separate.
Hassan: Sad words but true; my heart hears not, and my mind would
wish to follow suit. But must it truly be so? Friends may separate,
and courses diverge, but memories as strong as this never fade
away. Will we not one day, when one is in Sind, the Second in
Cordoba, and the last one in Samarkand, meet in some distant
courtyard like this, and relive all the pleasant memories?
Nizam: I would wish it so, but it is not only thus, that the
courses of men diverge in time. In long years hence, will not one
be a king, the second a beggar, and third a captain in fabled
Abyssinia? Would the captain set his sail to unprofitable lands,
the king grant audience to the beggar? I would, if I were the king,
but will it always be so? Will my vizier too never turn you away,
and lock you behind my doors?
Hassan: For that reason then, why not make such a vow, to never
betray and not to forget the brotherhood, though brothers were to
die, and new friends usurp their place? Let us cast our lot
together, so that if one were to become a prince, and the others
beggars, the prince would then fulfill the dreams of all three!
Were I the king, dozen beggars could enter the front-door, but none
would leave - only princes would haste through the back-door!
Omar: If dreams were water, yours would be wine: dreamy and
deceitful. If princes fulfilled all the promises they gave to the
common man and the sundry soldier - why, every prostitute would be
a queen, and the back-alleys of Baghdad paved with gold.
Nizam: Such cold words! Why not for once, let the sun reflect
from your cold cup?
Omar: And spoil the fortune? You wish. Did not the triumvirate of
Caesar last but a while, though all were princes, and none a
beggar? Had Pompey been a pauper, you think the Romans would still
rule Alexandria?
Hassan: Would you rather have no vows, Omar? Is your invigorated
memory enough to last a lifetime?
Nizam: I will give my word, and his too, if need be. My brotherly
love would make another man!
Omar: Fine. Call me a clay pot if you wish, but my heart pumps
hot blood. I vow to keep my friendship, though all others vows be
rent untrue.
Nizam: I vow for my honour, I vow for life. In thus vowing, let
the other man in me keep his love, mine shall now never die.
Hassan: Here, let me spill my cup. Though the water I spilled be
the water of love and life, I would not regret this vow.
Omar: I vow for us to remain brothers, and a persian never
abandons his brother, though he be trapped in the passes of
Thermopylae!
Nizam: I vow for us to remain friends, and I would rather abandon
a brother than friend. Let him who stands in light give me strength!
Hassan: I vow... - wait! What is it that I hear; a score of
muezzins chants the song for prayer! Posthaste, brothers! There is
a vow still more sacred!
Nizam and Omar: We haste to pray!