Alas, the scholar's lot is drear, toiling at studies, never slack.
Reading till eyes grow dim and blear, writing till callus lines the back.
No clothes, the children cry with cold; no food, the wife bewails her fate.
For thoughts profound, the mind's hard-sold; the body wastes, a gaunt estate.
Through ups and downs, misfortunes throng; oft trampled by the proud and strong.
Ten tries before one pass is won; by then, the temples gray have run.
A man grows old and sick in turn; what use are riches then to earn?
How pitiful the youthful prime, spent in the clutch of want and grime!
In mansions grand with vermeil gate, a milky-mouthed heir holds his state.
His looks are soft as woman's grace, his skin sleek with rich food's embrace.
In swaddling clothes, a rank he claims, from noble line and martial names.
Before the hall, his minions wait, attending close at every gait.
A thousand gold for monthly fare, ten thousand coins for pleasures rare.
Behind, fair concubines he keeps, with whom he laughs and nightly sleeps.
Pearls, emeralds scattered here and there, with rouge and powder, rich and fair.
He decks his hawks and hounds with art, paints colors on the rose's heart.
Youth's days in wine and cups are cast, white suns on chessboards idly passed.
His salary pays the wine-rack's debt; heaps gold to choose a beauty met.
Morn drinks with gamblers, free and bold; eve keeps a courtesan's date, untold.
To all he boasts his pedigree; his joy lies in rare luxury.
With strings and songs, he feasts his eye; in silks and brocades, struts his style.
His fields and gardens shrink each day; his household gates decay, decay.
Beyond his games and lustful sound, he knows nor has aught else around.
What are the kings and emperors? Who, after all, are sages' laws?
O arrogant and haughty son, what good to world from you is done?
Think not how your forefathers old, once poor scholars, their sorrows told.
With toil they climbed the official stair, and scraped to build the family's share.
They hoped you'd keep their wealth in height, not see it fall in swift despite.
The scholar's lot is firm and long; the noble's line oft goes astray.
Rise and fall are but a moment's song; why sigh and grieve in deep dismay?
Our clan for two hundred years has stood, upholding rites and poems as good.
I served early in the capital, my fame already spread to all.
At court, I sealed memorials black, with loyal heart, no virtue lack.
I knew but to revere the king; how could I serve the barbarian thing?
In Xinzhou, my mat not warm, to Zhuyá, exiled, in storm.
I wept like Jia Yi, in despair; sighed as the Liang scholar, bare.
I vowed like Su Wu, staff in hand; chanted like Qu Yuan, exiled and banned.
The dragon soared, the sage I saw; then ordered to Hengyang, with awe.
The Emperor said, 'You, Hu Quan, why idle long, without a plan?
'Heaven favors your return to live; your honesty, the times will give.
'Strive harder for your early vow, to be my prop and help me now.'
Ten posts in one month did I gain, as plucking whiskers, without pain.
I stood at palace steps to speak; lectured where dragon drapes hang sleek.
Drafted edicts, lotus torch bright; rose in rank, gold cup in sight.
On frontier tours, I opened office; the Emperor's brush set flags in promise.
Three hundred thousand troops, elite, I directed with command complete.
The foe, hearing my name, fled by night; the border pacified, no fight.
Returned with drums and flutes in cheer, at tiger steps, bowed to the tier.
Appointed to Duanming's high seat, a mansion by the river's feet.
Glad to retire in ease at last, yet my lord's thoughts on me hold fast.
Special rites to my humble door—such honor fits me not, I'm poor.
My four sons back to court ascend, with tablets held, belts downward tend.
Father and sons bow, front and rear; brothers in harmony, sincere.
All this from virtue's store accrued; the royal praise with weight ensued.
The Zidian post, revered and high; my office gained, no private tie.
My rank equals a duke or prime; my age approaches its sublime.
I stand in loyalty and filial gate; our house rules pure, a constant state.
I pray our later generations wise, will strive with effort to arise.
I raise the cup to drink the moon; open my robe to catch the breeze.
Though drunk, my writing slants and sways, 'tis for my sons and grandsons' days.