I recall when I was a minor official, low in rank and easy in duty.
Friends rejoiced at my diligence, and the people's mouths also sang my praise.
Later, I was unworthy to serve as a censor, and already felt words hard to act upon.
Yet, relying on the wise to forgive, I was still said to be upright.
Suddenly, after years, I met with fortune, employed beyond my ability.
My name was empty, undeserving; the burden heavy, hard to bear.
The gaze of all cannot be deceived; every move invites criticism.
Scholars' judgment surely does not approve; my own awareness is also clear.
A thick salary is hard to repay; it only fosters sprouts of pride and extravagance.
Descendants forget hardship, in dress and use they boast and preen.
The pure and simple style fades; redundant and floating expenses grow.
Kin and old friends often blame and expect; whether thick or thin, they breed resentment.
Poverty and lowliness surpass wealth and honor—an ancient saying truly reliable.
Pleading illness, I was dismissed from office, just then glad my worries and duties lightened.
Soon again I commanded a whole region, soothing the people, leading border troops.
Bandits raged, just when I was arrogant; the people weary, not yet revived.
Victory or defeat hangs on the Director of Fate; weal and woe reach the multitude.
Trivial tasks I entrusted to lieutenants; great matters I reported to the court.
What I reported might be disobeyed; what I entrusted might be chosen unwell.
A slight error, though hair's breadth thin, may cause defeat like hills and mounds.
To perish in body—what does it matter? To err against the state stains the family name.
Should I not always be wary and fearful, as on a cliff's edge, treading spring ice?
So that I may perhaps avoid peril and ruin, I write this as a warning for my heart.