Heaven has its constant measure, its course never straying.
Earth has its constant order, its depths unchanged, unfading.
Man has his constant way, high and low following the proper track.
The three powers each hold their place, for ten thousand ages never shifting back.
If the two realms should ever change, cultivating virtue can avert the doom.
If the human way turns perverse, from what source shall its chaos find room?
In the bygone court of Jin, the state's fortune began to wane.
The sun rose at midnight, blazing bright from the eastern plain.
The earth split at the pole, and a gray goose flew in between.
Heaven and earth showed strange disasters, and human monsters thrived unseen.
First came the Bamboo Grove folk, eccentric, wild, and free.
Then Wang Yan and his kind, who talked of non-action loftily.
Drunken excess broke all rites, and Ruan Ji lent his support.
Empty fame cloaked deceit—Guang Yi and Wang Ni, of that sort.
He Zeng had foresight none, could not save the decline's start.
Zhang Hua strove in vain, no strength to lift the falling part.
Reading now the Western Jin records, one can only weep with a broken heart.
A thousand years have passed since then; the Song's flame burns anew.
In the eastern province roams a wayward crew, each claiming greatness, pushing their own view.
They call themselves beyond the worldly bond, casting all four bonds away.
The Six Classics they scorn and blame, the Three Sovereigns they defame.
'Fool the common folk by burning books'—how Li Si of Qin found joy in that dark scheme!
'To set rules for the world'—how pedantic seems Master Lu, the ancient dream!
Adrift, they never turn back, loathing to hear of moral ways.
Some drink like herdboy youths, with loose hair tangled in childish plays.
Some sing the songs of measures, all market slang in vulgar phrase.
Some chant the dirge 'Dew on the Shallot,' their voices steeped in mournful haze.
Some boast of weighty honor, counting gold and silk as naught.
Some claim to transcend body, from head to heel no thread of thought.
Does and stags mix in disorder—who then can tell the high from low?
From afar I hear of storm-tossed folk, unseen, like hunger's endless throe.
Meeting by chance a girdled scholar, they face him as if bound in tow.
Who knows, in these two decades past, from whom this fashion first did grow?
All because in highest places, many a 'peaceful fragrance' child they chose.
One chant from such a man, and all the world in unison arose.
One stride from such a man, and all the world in frenzy goes.
Village elders give their judgments, not deeming waywardness a shame.
The Minister of Rites oversees exams, not counting waywardness to blame.
In private halls they teach the young, that waywardness is fit and right.
At court they judge men's character, and turn to praise the wayward's light.
If family and state are all astray, where can ritual and law take flight?
I often grieve at this affair, at midnight rise and ponder deep.
Level ground with a three-foot ridge, an empty cart finds no path to keep.
A heavy load climbs a hundred fathoms, its ascent from slopes so steep.
If once it spreads to common use, though regretful, how to sweep?
All men are as if in dream, who can tell the gruel they reap?
All men are as if in drunken haze, unaware what dregs they sip.
If all the world is sick with palsy, who will seek the Lu doctor's grip?
If all the world is mad with frenzy, what time to moxa the eyebrow's tip?
Luckily there's the party of the noble teaching, with whom to vie for might.
Alas, the nine-rank system lowly, I cannot stand by the literary height.
Jia Yi could only weep in sorrow, Liang Hong sighed five times into the night.
At last I'll cut the bamboo of South Mountain, risk death to point out the blight.
May I ride the spirits of the nine temples, move the emperor's heart to see the light.
May he blaze with sole decision, cast out evil without fright.
Divide and capture, search on wide, let not a vile man flee the sight.
The great ones exposed in court and market, their followers to the sea take flight.
Kill one to warn ten thousand—this is governance's foundation true.
A thousand slaves share one gall, the gall broken, the many fall anew.
Let not the Yongjia storm return, to ruin this age of peace so few.