Beauties of Wu and Yue, praised since days of yore,
Yet kingdoms fell and homes were ruined, what tales they bore!
Last night I idly read the Song of Ai Ai, sighing,
And in my seat lamented, helpless, nearly crying.
Ai Ai was but a courtesan, a maid of pleasure,
Like unpolished gold and jade buried in dust's measure.
In Wu, her song and dance were ranked the very first,
With dark hair and twin coils, just fifteen, at her burst.
What things she heard and saw, who would have thought,
That such a person could be to such virtue brought?
Her heart in peril, deep in care and dread,
Before the lamp at midnight, tears like rain she shed.
Though one smile might have brought a thousand gold in fee,
She'd rather wed an honest man and faithful be.
Peach and plum bloom not for the roadside gaze,
But lotus flowers by autumn wind on isle displays.
Then suddenly she met a man named Zhang one day,
And pledged her life to him, never to stray.
Mountains may wear away, seas may run dry,
In life but one, in death no second tie.
Like worthless trees among a scrubby wood,
Transformed to Xiang River's bamboo, straight and good.
Or like the oriole in spring breeze's flight,
From dark vale soaring to a tree in light.
Like Wenjun galloping to Chengdu town,
Or Nongyu playing flute, a few tunes down.
No lute on horseback's sound is heard anew,
But on the hill, waiting for husband, her tears dew.
Last spring, the breeze still filled her room with cheer,
Last night, the bright moon still shone upon her bier.
The traveler gone, never to return again,
Not that the roads through hills and streams are long in vain.
The year before, she prized her golden-threaded dress,
Last year, she left her rouge in deep distress.
This year, this day, all things have come to end,
Gauze and kingfisher feathers like mud descend.
One maid with two lords—shameful in my view;
Disloyal to one's charge—what can one pursue?
Rosy lips and pearly teeth become her foe;
Better not to live, and thus no sorrow know.
Chirping grass insects, hopping locusts in the field,
All have beginnings, but few their vows can yield.
Mandarin ducks in flight, by net or snare are caught;
When will this regret in human heart come to naught?
Deep in the mountains where no footprints appear,
A sick phoenix folds its wings on a bare branch, drear.