of a precious wine cup without a bottom. Admire the condition of a lover! Drenched with dews and frosts and aimlessly wandering; ever concerned to shun the world’s reproof and escape his parents’ reproaches; hither and thither pursued by doubt and distress; and spending his nights withal sleepless upon a solitary couch.
But it is well that a man do not become addicted to lewdness, a constant and familiar companion of women.
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Were we to live on for ever—were the dews of Adashino never to vanish, the smoke on Toribeyama[1] never to fade away—then indeed would men not feel the pity of things.
Truly the beauty of life is its uncertainty. Of all living things, none lives so long as man. Consider how the ephemera awaits the fall of evening, and the summer cicada knows neither spring nor autumn. Even a year of life lived peacefully seems long and happy beyond compare; but for such as never weary of this world and are loath to die, a thousand years would pass away like the dream of a single night.
What shall it avail a man to drag out till he becomes decrepit and unsightly a life which some day needs must end? Long life brings many shames. At most before his fortieth year is full, it is seemly for a man to die.
After that age it is pitiful to see how, unashamed of his looks, he loves to thrust himself into the society of others and, cherishing his offspring in the evening of his days, craves to live on and on that he may watch them grow and prosper. So he continues, his heart set on nought but worldliness, and hardening to the pity of things.
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Of all things that lead astray the heart of man there is nought like fleshly lust. What a weakly thing is this heart of ours. Though a perfume, for example, is but a transient thing, and though he knows
- ↑ Adashino and Toribeyama were places of cremation.
