“_Knowing, fair sir, my matrimonial thrall, Two pearls thou sentest me, costly withal. And I, seeing that Love thy heart possessed, I wrapped them coldly in my silken vest._ “_For mine is a household of high degree, My husband captain in the King’s army; And one with wit like thine should say, ‘The troth of wives is for ever and ay.’_ “_With thy two pearls I send thee back two tears: Tears--that we did not meet in earlier years._” Many more poets of varying shades of excellence must here be set aside, their efforts often brightened by those quaint conceits which are so dear to the Chinese reader, but which approach so perilously near to bathos when they appear in foreign garb. A few specimens, torn from their setting, may perhaps have an interest of their own. Here is a lady complaining of the leaden-footed flight of time as marked by the water-clock:-- “_It seems that the clepsydra has been filled up with the sea, To make the long, long night appear an endless night to me!_” The second line in the next example is peculiarly characteristic:-- “_Dusk comes, the east wind blows, and birds pipe forth a mournful sound; Petals, like nymphs from balconies, come tumbling to the ground._” The next refers to candles burning in a room where two friends are having a last talk on the night before parting for a long period:-- “_The very wax sheds sympathetic tears, And gutters sadly down till dawn appears._” This last is from a friend to a friend at a distance:-- “_Ah, when shall we ever snuff candles again, And recall the glad hours of that evening of rain?_” [Sidenote: LI SHÊ] A popular poet of the ninth century was LI SHÊ, especially well known for the story of his capture by highwaymen. The chief knew him by name and called for a sample of his art, eliciting the following lines, which immediately secured his release:-- “_The rainy mist sweeps gently o’er the village by the stream, When from the leafy forest glades the brigand daggers gleam.... And yet there is no need to fear, nor step from out their way, For more than half the world consists of bigger rogues than they!_” A popular physician in great request, as well as a poet, was MA TZŬ-JAN (_d._ A.D. 880). He studied Taoism in a hostile sense, as would appear from the following poem by him; nevertheless, according to tradition, he was ultimately taken up to heaven alive:-- “_In youth I went to study ~TAO~ at its living fountain-head, And then lay tipsy half the day upon a gilded bed. ‘What oaf is this,’ the Master cried, ‘content with human lot?’ And bade me to the world get back and call myself a sot. But wherefore seek immortal life by means of wondrous pills? Noise is not in the market-place, nor quiet on the hills. The secret of perpetual youth is already known to me: Accept with philosophic calm whatever fate may be._”