《抱朴子外篇》Vol. 39

Ge Hong (Daoist name Baopuzi) said: When a person can establish noble virtue (De), practice the true Dao, align words with deeds, and maintain unsullied integrity - this constitutes true wealth. Why chase after piles of gold, jade and fine silks? To hold lofty aspirations without servility or arrogance, never suffering humiliation - this is true nobility. Why covet the glory of official robes and insignia? When ordinary people cannot comprehend his bearing, and mediocre minds cannot fathom his standards - this is genuine brilliance. Why must one ride clouds and mist? When questioners cannot measure the depth of his thoughts, and seekers find no flaws in him - this is true erudition. Why must one probe the Yellow River's depths? If one's inner self is fulfilled, even living in ringing poverty, why envy miners and salt merchants? Finding joy among birds and beasts, why yearn for ornate carriages?

Ge Hong continues: The hidden dragon awaits auspicious clouds before soaring; resting swans require strong winds to take flight. The white fish emerged only when King Wen of Zhou appeared; the white pheasant revealed itself solely for the Duke of Zhou. Jiang Ziya fished at Panxi until encountering King Wen; Han Xin's governance talents unfolded only when meeting Emperor Gaozu of Han.

Ge Hong maintains: When spirit (Shen) merges completely with the profound Dao (Xuan Yi), the physical form can be forgotten. Those who transcend material concerns can abandon even wealth and honor. Thus the crippled sage Zhili Shu found contentment following nature's course, while the recluse Beiren Wuze delighted in his hermitage on Mount Song.

Ge Hong observes: Crude principles cannot penetrate all subtleties; omnipotent affairs cannot be simultaneously achieved. Though bright, sun and moon suffer eclipses; though fixed, mountains and rivers undergo changes. Hard as they are, gold and jade can melt; thick as it is, solid ice will thaw. The Duke of Zhou couldn't compete with Bo Yi on Fengyun Mountain; Confucius couldn't match the Lüliang diver in deep gorges.

Finally Ge Hong emphasizes: Thunder cannot soften its roar to accommodate musical stones; sun and moon cannot hoard their light for special corners. The great river cannot shrink its banks for swift crossing; the Five Sacred Peaks cannot flatten their summits for climbers' convenience. Therefore a broad carriage cannot compress its wheels for narrow paths, just as noble scholars won't bend principles to vulgar trends. Heaven and earth's yin (moon/earth) and yang (sun/sky) universally nurture all things; the Three Luminaries (sun, moon, stars) shine impartially upon the land.

The "Outer Chapters of the Master Who Embraces Simplicity" (Baopuzi Waipian) employs vivid analogies to illustrate principles of self-cultivation and worldly conduct. A spirit turtle's shell wasn't made for combat, just as a qilin's horn or phoenix's claws weren't designed for fighting. Thus, people in peaceful times shouldn't discard their swords, just as night watchmen don't stop sounding their wooden clappers merely because all seems tranquil.

True gold doesn't lose its value when buried underground, nor does fine jade diminish its radiance when hidden in deep mountains. Those pursuing the great Dao won't alter their aspirations due to adversity, just as those upholding righteousness won't conform thoughtlessly when unappreciated.

Only those who have ascended the mystical Kunlun's Xuanyu (legendary immortal mountain) understand the insignificance of ordinary hills; only travelers who've roamed the Northern Sea recognize the narrowness of ponds. After studying classical scriptures, one realizes former shallowness; comprehending supreme principles reveals the delusions of worldly views.

Ge Hong employs natural metaphors: In primordial chaos, clear rivers didn't exist; rootlets thin as hair can't grow into trees thick enough to embrace; feeble sparks can't start prairie fires; narrow crevices can't sustain flourishing communities. A curved hook casts no straight shadow; uneven tops won't produce uniform bottoms.

Without witnessing jade's brilliance, one can't recognize tile's coarseness; without seeing tigers' majesty, one can't perceive dogs' mediocrity. Only after hearing refined melodies like "Yangchun Baixue" (Spring Snow) does one recognize the vulgarity of "Xiali Baren" (folk tunes); only through understanding Confucian elegance's depth does one lament ignorance's folly.

A jade bowl without a base is inferior to intact pottery; torn brocade robes can't compare with sturdy whole cloth. Thus, the beauty of Xia Ji (notorious Spring and Autumn period seductress) pales beside the virtue of Guzhu Nü (legendary chaste maiden), just as ill-gotten wealth is inferior to contented poverty upholding the Dao.

Fierce beasts don't attack without cause; eagles don't flap wings aimlessly. Similarly, making court decisions without considering virtue or acting externally without assessing strength is like tossing feathers into furnaces or snowflakes into boiling cauldrons—like ephemeral mushrooms challenging Ganjiang swords or lambs provoking tigers.

When sun, moon and stars are obscured, earth loses illumination; when tree roots are damaged, foliage withers. Nearby Dao violations bring distant calamities; upper echelon misgovernance makes commoners suffer below. These all demonstrate the principle of universal interconnection.

Ge Hong (Baopuzi) observed that those who fixate solely on distant ambitions often neglect immediate affairs, while those preoccupied with external refinement may harbor internal flaws. Just as covering one's head doesn't prevent wet feet, and shielding the belly won't protect the back from injury. Emperor Qin Shi Huang built the Great Wall to defend against northern tribes, yet calamity arose from within his own court; Emperor Wu of Han campaigned across vast distances, only to face rebellion from his closest confidants.

Human talent holds no fixed value, nor do objects possess immutable purposes. The wise adapt their ambitions to the times; those who master circumstances prove their brilliance by acting with timely appropriateness. Ice sculptures are discarded in bitter cold, just as fur coats and stoves become unnecessary in sweltering heat. Fine bows are strung only when flocks soar high; hunting dogs are unleashed only when cunning hares multiply. Warriors thrive in turbulent times, while scholars flourish in peaceful eras.

To channel raging rivers toward the ocean, one must not breach the dikes. For branches to flourish and blossoms to dazzle, the main root must remain intact. Sever the source, lose the foundation, and few things escape withering; defy the sages' Dao (the Way), and great achievements become nearly impossible.

The four great rivers—Yangtze, Yellow, and others—spring from separate sources; the five major waterways diverge in their courses, yet all flow downward to merge in the sea. Like hues differing yet equally vibrant, notes varying yet harmoniously musical, scents distinct yet equally fragrant, flavors unique yet all delectable.

An object's worth lies in utility—ornamentation remains secondary. Transforming people requires De (Virtue)—words alone prove inadequate. Coarse cloth suffices against cold without requiring sable furs; simplicity accomplishes deeds where clever rhetoric fails.

Only when gales cease does drifting thistle find rest; only when nets spread do their meshes align. Thus no principle exists where rulers humble themselves while subjects grow arrogant, or where lords disdain treasures yet commoners wallow in poverty.

Minor events may trigger major consequences; governing nearby affects distant realms. Like small ponds attracting deep-sea fish, or cultivated woods drawing phoenixes; dragon patterns carved on plates summon real serpents, while ashes scattered in shallow waters alter the moon's course. Hence Duke Wen of Jin turned his chariot for an insect, winning warriors' loyalty, and King Goujian of Yue bowed to an angry frog, inspiring soldiers' valor. When the "Nine Times Nine" multiplication table gains respect, worthy talents arrive; when fallen warriors receive proper burial, benevolent customs spread.

Fertile soil at the roots ensures lush foliage; leading by example transforms customs, making education effortlessly effective.

This passage comes from the Outer Chapters of the Master Who Embraces Simplicity (Baopuzi Waipian) by Ge Hong of the Eastern Jin dynasty, primarily discussing wisdom in governance. Here is the modern interpretation:

Ancient sage rulers educated the people without relying on words. For instance, Emperor Yao achieved a peaceful and prosperous era by wearing simple deerskin garments, while Duke Huan of Qi curbed extravagance by reducing lavish attire. Constructing magnificent palaces leads to wasteful excess, whereas halting the building of extravagant terraces allows simplicity to flourish.

The truly wise foresee rise and decline from subtle signs. Just as a physician from Yue could predict Qi's decline from symptoms Duke Huan himself hadn't noticed, and Jizi foresaw the disaster of the Deer Terrace from King Zhou of Shang's use of ivory chopsticks—a seemingly trivial matter.

The movement of heaven and earth follows the cycle of the four seasons, and enlightened rulers govern by balancing rewards and punishments. Executing the powerful establishes authority, while rewarding commoners encourages virtue. Proper punishments deter wickedness, and widespread benevolence wins distant hearts. What foolish rulers neglect, wise rulers value; what doomed monarchs discard, successful sovereigns implement.

Governing is like sailing—one must observe the winds of change, and handling state affairs requires careful deliberation. Minor missteps lead to major errors, and improper rewards or punishments disrupt moral standards. An enlightened ruler's rewards should be like timely spring rain, and punishments like autumn frost—neither excessive nor mistimed.

Those who wield power must be impartial. To attract talent, one must first cultivate virtue; losing popular support often stems from personal failings. There is no instance where an unvirtuous ruler retains talent or a flawed leader wins hearts.

Enlightened rulers personally hold authority, while foolish ones let power slip away. Tian Chang usurped Qi and Wang Mang seized Han precisely because they monopolized the power to reward and punish. Governance cannot rigidly adhere to old ways—just as carving a boat to find a lost sword or gluing pegs to adjust a zither are futile—one must adapt flexibly to change.

Through numerous historical allusions, this passage expounds on principles of governance: keen perception, balanced rewards and punishments, and adaptive responses. It emphasizes the ruler's personal cultivation and the proper exercise of authority.

This passage conveys several essential life principles through vivid analogies:

The first paragraph illustrates that just as we don't need parasols on clear days or ornate carriages to cross rivers, our actions must suit actual circumstances. Adding salt when food is bland or adjusting water and fire when boiling demonstrates the need for flexible problem-solving.

The second observes how ancient solemn oaths (iron-clad covenants sealed with animal blood) couldn't prevent betrayals, nor could severe punishments (the five mutilations and nine decapitations) deter greed. Thus governing a state requires more than rigid adherence to ancient ways—it demands the evolutionary wisdom described in the Book of Changes (Yijing).

The third emphasizes that truly discerning people see through illusions. Without proper judgment, one might mistake venomous snakes for divine dragons, or confuse foxes and owls with qilin and phoenixes.

The fourth reveals that neither public praise nor slander reliably indicates virtue—deeds matter more than words. Only by focusing on actual conduct can we prevent smooth-talkers from rising while genuine talent remains buried.

The fifth uses metaphors: rotten wood can't withstand storms, and small mounds collapse before great waves. The Battle of Muye (the decisive conflict where King Wu overthrew the Shang) merely marked the endpoint of a long decline.

The final section critiques two common errors: blindly venerating ancients while undervaluing contemporary talent, and trusting rumors over direct observation. Like Emperor Qin Shi Huang admiring Han Fei's writings but failing to employ him, or Emperor Wu of Han appreciating Sima Xiangru's literary gifts while giving him only ceremonial posts—this resembles Lord Ye who claimed to love dragons yet fled when facing a real one.

The conclusion powerfully states: An unlit pearl differs little from a stone; a roc that doesn't soar might as well be an insect; a golden voice unused becomes mute; buried talent inevitably mingles with mediocrity. The essential message: one must fully manifest their innate capabilities.

The dragon lurks in the abyss, while the inferior steed roams the wilderness—neither recognizes the other's true nature. In stillness they appear alike, yet in movement their differences emerge.

Discard gold and jade upon the road, and passersby will stop in awe; cast silk into the mire, and onlookers will gasp in shock. Yet when transcendent sages are buried among the mediocre, or when men of statecraft languish in obscurity, critics do not cry out for them, and the powerful extend no aid. Some value their writings but neglect the authors themselves, adopting their strategies while forgetting their contributions. This flaw has persisted since ancient times.

If the spring's source is not deep enough, it cannot form rivers encircling lofty peaks; if the mountain is not towering, it cannot gather clouds that veil the sky. Without abundant wealth, generosity cannot be widespread; without profound learning, words cannot be rich. A single glance at an ivory tusk ten feet long reveals it could never grow in a small mouth; a glimpse of a branch a hundred feet high makes clear it cannot be supported by a slender trunk.

The divine phoenix (Lingfeng) soars from the Cinnabar Grotto (Danxue) at dawn and rests upon the Lofty Mound (Xuanqiu) by dusk, traversing the nine heavens in a single day, riding wind and treading clouds without hindrance—all thanks to the strength and lightness of its six wings. Similarly, outstanding talents are the wings of the state.

Even the finest zithers, like "Qiwei" or "Wang Gui," cannot produce clear, resonant music without strings; even the most stirring melodies cannot be expressed without instruments. Likewise, transcendent virtue (De) cannot achieve great deeds without the right opportunity.

Fresh algae will not grow on withered branches; torrential floods do not surge from dried-up springs. The glow of fireflies at night, no matter how bright, cannot illuminate all things; those obsessed with fame and fortune will struggle to leave a lasting legacy.

If the abyss does not reach the earth's depths, it cannot conceal dragons or ship-swallowing fish; if the mountain does not pierce the heavens, it cannot nurture jade or summon rain-bearing clouds. If one's virtue (De) does not rise above the mundane, they will not gain noble renown; if one's ambition is not extraordinary, they cannot achieve greatness. Ordinary people perform deeds as slight as a cicada's wing in the morning yet expect rewards as vast as a mountain by evening—like planting millet and sitting back to await the harvest.

Those who lack transcendent qualities yet crave worldly praise, or who possess neither virtue (De) nor talent yet rush to form factions—such people seek a reputation for purity and nobility as vainly as trying to fly without wings or cross a river without oars. Their efforts are doomed to futility.

Ge Hong (Daoist name Baopuzi) employs a series of vivid metaphors to expound profound principles for personal conduct:

A clay dragon may be adorned with splendor, yet cannot summon auspicious clouds; a carved bird may display brilliant colors, yet cannot withstand the wind; a straw dog tied with golden bells will never run swiftly. This illustrates how those with empty reputations, even when attaining high positions and generous emoluments, cannot truly benefit the world.

Poisoned porridge left out will naturally attract greedy rats; a torch lit at night gathers moths to their doom; fattened livestock ultimately end up in cooking pots. This warns those with inadequate talent who assume heavy responsibilities—like Sang Hongyang and Huo Guang of the Spring and Autumn period who, despite their power and status, ultimately met with calamity.

Natural phenomena further illustrate these truths: ocean waves cannot wash away dust from mountain peaks, gales may topple great trees yet cannot uproot small grass, and even fierce tigers cannot intimidate mosquitoes. This shows how extraordinary talents often find it difficult to conform to worldly conventions.

The text particularly emphasizes the importance of willpower: steadfast determination is the key to achieving merit, while unrelenting effort is the teacher of all virtues. Just as climbing a mountain without stopping at obstacles leads to the summit, enduring poverty without complaint naturally earns one a noble reputation.

Even legendary physicians like Bian Que (Huan) and Qin Yueren could not achieve immortality, yet medical arts remain tools for saving lives; Confucian scholars may live in poverty, yet classical learning remains fundamental for self-cultivation. Just as farming may yield poor harvests but should not be abandoned, practicing benevolence may invite misfortune but must not lead us to forsake virtue.

The passage concludes with natural laws: overloading sinks boats, reckless advancement endangers oneself; scorpions gnawing at tree roots may seem insignificant but ultimately cause great harm. Clouds follow dragons, winds follow tigers—true talents emerge according to their time. Metal breaks because of its hardness, water endures through its softness; high mountains crumble while low valleys remain secure. Those who maintain the Dao of softness (feminine principle) avoid conflict, while those who constantly contend invite resentment.

In his youth, Marquis Huaiyin Han Xin endured the humiliation of crawling between another man's legs, yet this did not prevent him from later soaring like a dragon to achieve great deeds. Fan Ju, the Marquis of Ying, once fled for his life wrapped in a straw mat, yet this did not hinder him from later rising like a phoenix to the highest ranks of power. Some ultimately become kings and conquerors, while others ascend to the position of prime minister. Just as wild geese rely on air currents to soar high, true talent must weather life's fluctuations to await their moment.

The cicada would rather live in honest poverty than feed on filth like a dung beetle. Liezi (Yu Kou) refused gifts from the powerful nobles of Zheng, and Zeng Shen disdained the treasures of Jin and Chu. This shows that those of noble character hold fast to their principles.

A gentle breeze cannot stir ocean waves, and a single hair cannot move a giant bell. Zhuangzi (of the Lacquer Garden) lamented the rarity of finding a true confidant, just as Bo Ya broke his strings and ceased playing after Zhong Ziqi's death. Shallow melodies cannot produce grand music, and worldly temptations cannot shake a heart devoted to simplicity.

A bear does not compete with a fox in agility, nor does a golden eagle stoop to vie with sparrows. Just as Zhang Er once served as a lowly gatekeeper and Zhu Hai concealed himself among butchers, true heroes do not contend over trivial matters.

Ordinary fish may be caught with fragrant bait, but not the mighty dragon. Foxes may be trapped, but not the qilin (unicorn). Truly extraordinary beings cannot be captured by ordinary means.

Birds in flight do not perceive the filth of the mud below, just as the powerful often overlook the toils of the common people. Yet when a tree's roots rot, no matter how tall it stands, it will fall. When the people's hearts turn away, even rulers as sage as Yao and Shun cannot ensure lasting peace.

When divine trees take root in sacred mountains, even the master craftsman Lu Ban (Gongshu Ban) lays down his axe. When small fish swim in the dragon's pool, fishermen willingly withdraw their nets. Just as mosquitoes buzzing above an eagle's head go unpecked, and rats dare not act recklessly near a tiger.

The sacred tortoise (Ling Cai) used for divination remains silent yet foretells fortune, while the clamor of frogs only brings annoyance. Thus, those who speak little often wield the greatest influence, and those who say little command the most trust.

In places where sitting cross-legged is the norm, kneeling formally invites scorn. Where loose hair is customary, wearing a ceremonial cap invites ridicule. Therefore, in times when slander prevails, the upright and loyal are always cast aside.

Ge Hong (Baopuzi) states that when a person lives in an environment that despises upright individuals, it's like trying to extinguish fires across eight marshes with a single cup of water, attempting to block the torrents of Mount Dizhu with a handful of earth, or trying to clear the forests of Changzhou with a short blade—individual effort alone cannot stem the tide of factional misconduct.

He employs vivid analogies: A thousand sheep cannot withstand a single fierce tiger; ten thousand sparrows are no match for one eagle. Lighting countless torches in a courtyard still pales before the lingering glow of sunset; the combined clamor of a hundred drums cannot rival the lingering echoes of thunder. Thus, when courts are filled with mediocre officials, it becomes difficult to uphold moral order, whereas the presence of just one exceptional talent can bring all affairs into proper alignment.

Ge Hong observes that unrighteous prosperity is like flowers blooming in winter—destined to wither—while steadfast adherence to the Dao (the Way) in adversity resembles bamboo and cypress enduring frost, emerging even more resilient. Truly discerning individuals will not forsake the right path even with swords at their throats—how could they stoop to flattering worldly trends? The upright refuse to bend their principles for the lure of fiefdoms—how could they seek glory through crooked means?

He elaborates further: Deafening thunder means nothing to the deaf; brilliant sunlight cannot penetrate deep caverns; bitter frost cannot harm hardy blossoms; scorching winds cannot wither the trees of Xiaoqiu (legendary "Flame Mountain"). Thus, the highest virtue possesses an immutable essence.

Ge Hong warns: A fully drawn crossbow is fearsome, yet brave pheasants still charge toward it; corrupt governance is perilous, yet the greedy jostle to exploit it. Thus, when unseen blades strike suddenly, calamity arrives beyond remedy. What fools chase is precisely what sages lament; what mediocrities flock to, the truly wise avoid.

In closing, he concludes: Without wind, fans are unnecessary; without night, candles serve no purpose; flowers must fade for fruit to form; riverbanks must collapse for valleys to fill. In times of peace, generals like Han Xin and Bai Qi find no glory; under enlightened rulers, ministers like Yi Yin and Huo Guang achieve no extraordinary deeds. Thus, grave illness reveals the value of skilled physicians, and chaos underscores the worth of loyalty.

Ge Hong also reflects on human nature: Those craving honor delight in praise, while those fearing disgrace bristle at criticism. Only those who comprehend the Dao (the Way) and unite with nature can transcend such worldly gains and losses.

This passage comes from Ge Hong's Baopuzi Outer Chapters, primarily expounding Daoist wisdom for navigating life and philosophical insights on human existence. Here is the plain interpretation:

A truly transcendent person views gain and loss as lightly as a single finger, never allowing love or hatred to sway their resolve. Neither poverty nor prominence can disturb their inner peace. Ge Hong states that those unshaken by gain or loss are the purest, while those unaffected by profit or harm are the most genuine. Their realm is as vast as heaven and earth—impossible to measure with a ladle; their mind is as boundless as the cosmos—not to be gauged by footsteps.

Ge Hong employs a series of metaphors to illustrate: dense forests invite lumberjacks, and beautiful pearls lead to clams being pried open. Just as sharp blades are prone to chipping and over-tightened strings snap easily, those who follow the Dao (the Way) seek only what suits them—for talents that cater to worldly demands may invite misfortune instead.

He further points out: like a target that draws arrows when erected, fame inevitably attracts slander. Hoarding treasures invites resentment even without provocation; a narrow mind coupled with arrogance brings calamity unbidden.

Ge Hong emphasizes: priceless treasures are beyond the means of the poor, and extraordinary talents escape the recognition of shallow minds. Yet true gems do not lose their luster when unseen, nor do exceptional individuals alter their integrity in adversity. Those who align with heaven's will never blame fate.

Using the roc and the elephant as analogies: the roc has no need for crowing at dawn, and the elephant is ill-suited for swift pursuit. Just as Jiang Wan, though flawed in minor matters, rose to become a high minister, or Chen Ping, despite poor household management, possessed brilliant strategies. Human talents, like brightness and dimness, are innate and unfeigned; fortune, whether meager or abundant, follows destiny and cannot be forced. Jiang Ziya was not foolish in youth and wise in old age, nor was Han Xin cowardly at first and brave later—they simply awaited their moment to shine.

Finally, Ge Hong cautions: swift horses cannot retrieve misspoken words, nor can a thousand pieces of gold undo a careless remark. Better to prevent small faults than to bestow great favors; better to speak prudently than to seek excessively. The loyal love their country as their home and serve their ruler as their parent—naturally avoiding disloyalty. The benevolent treat others as themselves—naturally remaining blameless.

Ge Hong (Daoist name Baopuzi) employs multiple metaphors in this passage to elucidate principles of human conduct:

Regarding interpersonal relationships, he suggests that treating distant acquaintances with the same consideration as close ones prevents resentment born of intolerance. Just as green pines appear more vibrant against snow, noble character shines brightest in turbulent times. He cites Zhuangzi's preference for reclusion over worldly honors and Zengzi's contentment in poverty as examples of how adversity reveals true moral fiber.

Concerning celestial operations, Ge Hong asserts that while Heaven appears remote, it observes with perfect clarity—like a cosmic net that never misses. Divine beings reward virtue and punish vice: benevolent governance brings harmonious movements of sun, moon and stars, while tyranny disrupts the balance of Yin-Yang.

On social status, he distinguishes between Heaven-endowed nobility and transient earthly ranks. Confucius, though a commoner, receives eternal veneration, whereas tyrants like King Zhou and Jie are universally revenged despite their imperial titles. The living glory of the King of Qi pales before the posthumous fame of Liuxia Hui; Qin Shihuang's palaces command less respect than Zheng Xuan's humble alleyway.

Regarding karmic retribution, Ge Hong emphasizes that good deeds echo inevitably, though blessings may require time to manifest. Emperor Yao governed virtuously for seventy years before auspicious signs appeared, while Yang Hu accumulated merit until white-haired before receiving Heaven's golden omen.

About human limitations, he cautions recognition of boundaries: raging waves exhaust their force moving duckweed, gales cannot lift dust after passing, spent crossbow bolts fail to pierce gauze, and sunset cannot illuminate Shandong's mountains. Yet even eclipsed, the suspended sun and moon outshine fireflies; the muddy Yellow River dwarfs puddles; collapsed peaks remain taller than mounds; and emaciated tigers stay fiercer than jackals.

Ge Hong concludes: Without Shennong's poisoning from tasting herbs, the Classic of Herbal Medicine wouldn't exist; absent Yu the Great's calloused hands from flood control, the Dark Jade Scepter wouldn't have been awarded. Present toil lays foundations for lasting peace; immediate effort initiates perpetual ease. These metaphors collectively illustrate how Daoist cultivation requires tempering through trials to achieve authentic realization.

This passage illustrates how worldly riches and honors hold no sway over those who have attained true transcendence. Just as neither golden hooks nor osmanthus-scented bait (symbolizing the most precious lures) can catch fish in the deepest abyss, neither high office nor generous emoluments can tempt recluses who dwell beyond desire. In Lüliang (an ancient region) live hermits as noble as cranes, while by the riverside dwell common folk who sustain themselves through labor like those described in the poem "Chopping Sandalwood." The imperial court's lavish gifts piled high in the alley of Yan Ziling (renowned Eastern Han hermit) prove futile, and the ornate carriages sent to fetch Xu Sheng (Western Han recluse) must return empty.

Different beings cherish different values. Just as birds take flight at the sight of Xi Shi (legendary beauty), and turtles dive deep upon hearing the "Nine Shao" music (legendary ceremonial music of Emperor Shun's era). Elaborate robes cannot impress naked tribes, nor can the fresh melodies of water-chestnut gatherers delight the ears of Chu's slaves. The benevolent virtue of Gugong Danfu (grandfather of King Wen of Zhou) couldn't persuade the Di tribes to abandon their territorial demands, nor could the eloquence of Duanmu Ci (Confucius' disciple Zigong) enlighten stable grooms.

The mundane world often rejects noble things. Proper ritual etiquette offends clothing-averse tribes, while upright carpenters incur the jealousy of shops selling only warped timber. The greedy despise pristine white silk, factionalists loathe those of unblemished independence—just as merchants resent competitors sharing profits, and homely women envy peerless beauties.

When true gentlemen rise to prominence, they recommend worthy men and distribute wealth generously, whereas petty men flaunt status and scorn talent upon gaining power. Bestowing favors only on sycophants, selecting officials by personal whim—refusing to share peace with sages yet expecting rescue in crisis, declining to rejoice with extraordinary men yet hoping for comfort in sorrow. This resembles seeking rain from sacred mountains only when wildfires rage across the sky, or beginning to build ships in eastern Min only when floodwaters engulf the land—is this not far too late?