1. The bends have begun to pull me, though I abhor them,
Until they leave furrows in the skin of the earth.

2. Pastimes are of many sorts which they construct;
A reed-pipe with it, the warbler twitters, knotted.

3. I move not a limb except for a wind whose nature
Is a gift for stealing songs - a twittern warbler.

4. Nor do I reproach, without wine, its purveyor,
Since I assume no honey has ever gone sour.

5. Coax the lute - it's been silent too long -
Revelry speaks not 'til the lute has spoken.

6. Its virtue, in the eyes of every genteel man, is
The virtue of heavy rain: it makes generosity gush.