| 英譯： |
YOU were the youngest, and the one best loved by your father.
Everything went wrong the moment you married me.
You ransacked wardrobes when I was in need of clothes,
And sold your gold hairpin to buy me drinks.
At your meals you made do with wild vegetables;
For your firewood you depended on locust leaves.
Though my pay is today more than a hundred thousand,
All I can give you is sacrificial offerings.
We joked before about what came after death;
Today all this rose before my eyes.
Nearly all your clothes have been given away;
Your sewing box remains, but I cannot bear to open it.
I still think of our old affection And take pity on the male and female servants;
After dreaming of you I have sent them money.
I know indeed that this misfortune is shared by all,
But it is worse for couples who have been poor And for whom everything is tinged with sadness.
When I sit at leisure, I feel sad for you and for me.
How long, how long, can a hundred years last?
Têng Yu knew it was his fate not to have a son;
P'an Yüeh used many words to mourn his wife.
What could we hope for even if interred together?
To expect to meet only in another life is hard.
All I can do is to keep my eyes wide open
In the middle of the night, hour after hour,
To requite the knitted brows of your whole lifetime.
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