138. Sharp pain, disease, or bodily decay, Grievous disaster, or a mind distraught; 139. Oppression by the king, or calumny, Loss of relations, loss of all his wealth, 140. His house burned by a thunderbolt or fire; At death, poor fool, he finds rebirth in hell. 141. Not nakedness, nor matted hair nor filth, Not fasting long, nor lying on the ground, Not dust and dirt, nor squatting on the heels. Can cleanse the mortal that is full of doubt. 142. But one that lives a calm and tranquil life, Though gaily decked, if tamed, restrained, he live Walking the holy path in righteousness, Laying aside all harm to living things, True mendicant, ascetic, Brāhmin he! 143. Who in this world is so restrained by shame That, like a thoroughbred flicked by the whip. He can think lightly of the lash of blame? 144. By faith and virtue, energy, and mind In perfect balance, searching of the Norm, Perfect in knowledge and good practices, Perfect in concentration of your thoughts, Ye shall strike off this multitude of woes. 145. As cultivators guide the water-course, As fletchers straighten out the arrow-shaft, As carpenters warp timber to their needs, So righteous men subdue and train themselves. CHAPTER ELEVEN. OLD AGE. 146. Laugh ye, rejoice ye, when this world is burning? O wrapped in darkness, will ye not seek light? 147. Behold this body decked, a mass of sores, Sickly and swayed by multitudinous thoughts. Impermanent, unstable, uncomposed! 148. Poor worn-out carcase, home of sicknesses, Fragile, corrupting mass, mere life in death! 149. What joy to look upon these bleached bones, Like useless gourds in autumn thrown aside!-- 150. A township built of bones and plastered o'er With flesh and blood, the home and dwelling-place Of age and death, pride and hypocrisy! 151. Just as a royal chariot gaily decked Falls to decay, so grows this body old; But Truth and Norm old age cannot assail, The holy ones indeed know no decay. 152. Just like an ox, the witless man grows old; His flesh grows, but his wits do not increase. 153-4. Thro' many a round of birth and death I ran, Nor found the builder that I sought. Life's stream Is birth and death and birth, with sorrow filled. Now, housebuilder, thou'rt seen! No more shalt build! Broken are all thy rafters, split thy beam! All that made up this mortal self is gone; Mind hath slain craving; I have crossed the stream![1] 155. They who in youth have never trod the way Of righteousness, nor garnered wisdom's store. Like herons in a fishless pool decay. 156. They who in youth have never trod the way Of righteousness, nor garnered wisdom's store. Like broken bows, lie weeping their lost day. [1] The triumphant words of the Buddha, when at last He attained enlightenment, Nibbāna, beneath the Bo-tree. CHAPTER TWELVE. The Self.