• 《容乜易》（凡六） How easy it is! (six parts)
As I clasp the guitar in my hands, a hundred emotions thrill me with sadness.
Why, when age comes, is not passion consonant therewith?
Once youth has gone, its very mention irks.
If you mention it, yourself you feel the sting.
Till now infatuate I was loth to pay heed hereto:
But to-day I myself abhor the sight of my complexion in the mirror.
Men say, when wanton pleasure grows old, it still merits reliance:
For, lo! The bruised chrysanthemum has still some stalks that defy the frost.
The world corporeal wags waveringly, why strive to fulfil my ambition?
As the tide’s ebbing, so the flowers’ fading is without bound or date.
A myriad phases of affection cease from to-day.
All is savourless.
How easy it is to sigh!
Wait till, with tears and passion intermingled, I rehearse the story of past time.
How easy is sin amid green arbours!
In the joyous abode of song and dance all traffic has ceased.
Heaven ordained that frail should be the fortune of rosy girlhood:
Therefore, I refrain and keep low my passionate nature; I copy gentleness for the nonce.
Till now the spring-vapours had bewitched the Chong-thoi Willow.
Though thrice a day she rise to receive her guests and thrice she sleep with them, still she feels no shame.
In the past she greeted new lovers, now she speeds the old.
Butterflies love quest of fragrance; how can they be content?
I do but think that, if I buy up the green spring and take hold thereof,
Then, even when the gray clouds lock close together, I shall know no autumn.
Again, say not that willow-blossoms can find pity after their bodies have died.
My heart has though this through.
As I speak I have suffered the wind to bear me along:
Thus I am transformed into duckweed drifting adown the stream.
How easy it is to get drunken on a thousand bowls of wine,
When passion is so deep, and the flavour is so strong!
Methinks, the seed of distress surely is planted in a former life.
He whose love is firmly rooted will be loth to let its hold grow lax.
In his cups a man should prize soberness as a jewel.
Say not that, when soul is bemused and heart in riot, then man and woman are in harmony.
In fine, the place of joy is turbid as a dream in its transience.
When tables are drawn and guests go home, a myriad matters grow empty of import.
In bearing round the wineglass and offering the cup, emotion is intense.
But, prithee, how long will the bloom of the peach-blossom redden in my cheeks?
To-day I know not whom I can trust to drain with me the flushed bumper and the brimming wine.
Ah! Where is the use?
E’er ever I drink, my heart is sore.
‘Tis a whole life’s legacy of sorrow, to have erred into the company of flowers.
How easy it is to unmoor the ship from the willow bank!
Both oars are of maple wood: the crew are fairies.
The east wind blows favourably for me:
It wafts my lover to my presence.
The teal rest together: all men envy them.
As two beads of bright pearl are traversed by a single thread,
So my whole desire is ever to see my master’s face.
This life knots upon us the doom of our after-life,
Even as the root-fibres of the lily are bound up in the same birth as the petals of the lily-flower.
Since then one body with a single root abides unchanged,
I never thought that the shadow of your sail would thus turn the windings of the River Song.
‘Tis hard to fulfil my wish.
As the kite snaps its string, when taut,
So you have jilted me to fall here at heaven’s verge. Truly ‘tis pitiful!
How easy it is for the gay clouds to scatter and fly!
In an instant the spring sail must depart.
What man is he who fain would part branches that are intertwined?
When such a crisis comes, what measures can avail?
Betimes I learned that to sever love was no light or easy task.
Why did you at the first protect me with might and main?
Yet to-day have I sped your parting, wordless but in tears.
The parting lover snaps off a thousand willow-twigs:
And from of yore the road-stage has been a place of heart-ache.
Will any time, say you, hereafter be appointed for our meeting?
Since silk fans tarry their disuse at autumn’s close,
Ah! I groan for my niggard fate.
‘Tis easy for the wanton clouds to scatter.
But in that day, though you wish to go, it will be hard to part: even regret will come too late.
How easy it is for the hair on either temple to grow grey with age!
Is there any man whose heedful heart remembers the Pearl maid of bygone days?
Autumn winds time on time increase annoyance.
‘Tis a single night’s frost that has shrouded all the ship’s prow with white.
The lute’s four strings are dried up: scarce can a tone be drawn from them.
Yet, though you swept your passion’s depth from out the chords, I fear you will but tinge your mind with enduring grief.
How many another has sunk into my plight!
They that remember not the past, are neither bruised nor wounded.
The end of a fair flower is but to be littered by the wind at last.
Tell me, how can I hold in check the vagrant butterflies and the mad bees?
Hereafter I shall be forlorn with naught whereon to rely.
Ah! I sing softly to myself.
I have paid off my debt of wanton joy:
Yet you flout me, till, clasping the guitar in my hands, I sadly face the sunset.