1. I have written prolifically, yet none is capable
Of my wakefulness, refinement, or production,

2. Except a youth like me, though of what use is he
As long as he follows my path?

3. The hands loathe to extend to him, though
If given, would lead to ascension.

4. Literature whose wellspring produces useful waters—
The thirsty arts are sated by its gushing fount.

5. If I had pursued my methods elsewhere
I’d have filled my coffers with ransoms of gold.

6. A land in which the man of letters lives destitute—
His production from wealth and taxes.

7. If one buys my book with a word
Of thanks, I say my harvest was honest.