白居易：
pí pá xíng bìng xù
琵琶行并序
yuán hé shí nián yǔ zuǒ qiān jiǔ jiāng jùn sī mǎ míng nián qiū sòng kè pén pǔ kǒu wén chuán zhōng yè dàn pí pá zhě tīng qí yīn zhēng zhēng rán yǒu jīng dōu shēng wèn qí rén běn cháng ān chàng nǚ cháng xué pí pá yū mù cáo èr shàn cái nián cháng sè shuāi wěi shēn wéi jiǎ rén fù suì mìng jiǔ shǐ kuài dàn shù qǔ qǔ bà mǐn rán zì xù shǎo xiǎo shí huān lè shì jīn piāo lún qiáo cuì zhuǎn xǐ yū jiāng hú jiān yǔ chū guān èr nián tián rán zì ān gǎn sī rén yán shì xī shǐ jué yǒu qiān zhé yì yīn wéi cháng jù gē yǐ zèng zhī fán liù bǎi yī shí liù yán mìng yuē pí pá xíng
元和十年，予左遷九江郡司馬。明年秋，送客湓浦口，聞船中夜彈琵琶者，聽其音，錚錚然有京都聲問其人，本長安倡女，嘗學琵琶於穆曹二善才。年長色衰，委身為賈人婦。遂命酒，使快彈數曲，曲罷憫然。自敘少小時歡樂事，今漂淪憔悴，轉徙於江湖間。予出官二年恬然自安，感斯人言，是夕，始覺有遷謫意，因為長句歌以贈之，凡六百一十六言，命曰琵琶行。
xún yán jiāng tóu yè sòng kè fēng yè dí huā qiū sè sè
潯言江頭夜送客，楓葉荻花秋瑟瑟。
zhǔ rén xià mǎ kè zài chuán jǔ jiǔ yù yǐn wú guǎn xián
主人下馬客在船，舉酒欲飲無管弦。
zuì bù chéng huān cǎn jiāng bié bié shí máng máng jiāng jìn yuè
醉不成歡慘將別，別時茫茫江浸月。
hū wén shuǐ shàng pí pá shēng zhǔ rén wàng guī kè bù fā
忽聞水上琵琶聲，主人忘歸客不發。
xún shēng àn wèn dàn zhě shuí pí pá shēng tíng yù yǔ chí
尋聲暗問彈者誰，琵琶聲停欲語遲。
yí chuán xiāng jìn yāo xiāng jiàn tiān jiǔ huí dēng zhòng kāi yàn
移船相近邀相見，添酒回燈重開宴。
qiān hū wàn huàn shǐ chū lái yóu bào pí pá bàn zhē miàn
千呼萬喚始出來，猶抱琵琶半遮面。
zhuàn zhóu bō xián sān liǎng shēng wèi chéng qǔ diào xiān yǒu qíng
轉軸撥弦三兩聲，未成曲調先有情。
xián xián yǎn yì shēng shēng sī sì sù píng shēng bù dé zhì
弦弦掩抑聲聲思，似訴平生不得志。
dī méi xìn shǒu xù xù dàn shuō jìn xīn zhōng wú xiàn shì
低眉信手續續彈，說盡心中無限事。
qīng lǒng màn niǎn mǒ fù tiāo chū wéi ní shɑng hòu liù me
輕攏慢捻抹復挑，初為霓裳后六么。
dà xián cáo cáo rú jí yǔ xiǎo xián qiè qiè rú sī yǔ
大弦嘈嘈如急雨，小弦切切如私語。
cáo cáo qiè qiè cuò zá dàn dà zhū xiǎo zhū luò yù pán
嘈嘈切切錯雜彈，大珠小珠落玉盤。
jiān guān yīng yǔ huā dǐ huá yōu yè quán liú shuǐ xià tān
間關鶯語花底滑，幽咽泉流水下灘。
shuǐ quán lěng sè xián níng jué níng jué bú tōng shēng jiàn xiē
水泉冷澀弦凝絕，凝絕不通聲漸歇。
bié yǒu yōu chóu àn hèn shēng cǐ shí wú shēng shèng yǒu shēng
別有幽愁暗恨生，此時無聲勝有聲。
yín píng zhà pò shuǐ jiāng bèng tiě qí tū chū dāo qiāng míng
銀瓶乍破水漿迸，鐵騎突出刀槍鳴。
qǔ zhōng shōu bō dāng xīn huà sì xián yī shēng rú liè bó
曲終收撥當心畫，四弦一聲如裂帛。
dōng chuán xī fǎng qiāo wú yán wéi jiàn jiāng xīn qiū yuè bái
東船西舫悄無言，唯見江心秋月白。
shěn yín fàng bō chā xián zhōng zhěng dùn yī shɑng qǐ liǎn róng
沈吟放撥插弦中，整頓衣裳起斂容。
zì yán běn shì jīng chéng nǚ jiā zài xiā mɑ líng xià zhù
自言本是京城女，家在蝦蟆陵下住。
shí sān xué dé pí pá chéng míng shǔ jiào fāng dì yī bù
十三學得琵琶成，名屬教坊第一部。
qǔ bà céng jiào shàn cái fú zhuāng chéng měi bèi qiū niáng dù
曲罷曾教善才服，妝成每被秋娘妒。
wǔ líng nián shào zhēng chán tóu yī qǔ hóng xiāo bù zhī shù
五陵年少爭纏頭，一曲紅綃不知數。
diàn tóu yín bì jī jié suì xuè sè luó qún fān jiǔ wū
鈿頭銀篦擊節碎，血色羅裙翻酒污。
jīn nián huān xiào fù míng nián qiū yuè chūn fēng děng xián dù
今年歡笑復明年，秋月春風等閑度。
dì zǒu cóng jūn ā yí sǐ mù qù cháo lái yán sè gù
弟走從軍阿姨死，暮去朝來顏色故。
mén qián lěng luò chē mǎ xī lǎo dà jià zuò shāng rén fù
門前冷落車馬稀，老大嫁作商人婦。
shāng rén zhòng lì qīng bié lí qián yuè fú liáng mǎi chá qù
商人重利輕別離，前月浮梁買茶去。
qù lái jiāng kǒu shǒu kōng chuán rào chuán yuè míng jiāng shuǐ hán
去來江口守空船，繞船月明江水寒。
yè shēn hū mèng shào nián shì mèng tí zhuāng lèi hóng lán gān
夜深忽夢少年事，夢啼妝淚紅闌干。
wǒ wén pí pá yǐ tàn xī yòu wén cǐ yǔ zhòng jī jī
我聞琵琶已嘆息，又聞此語重唧唧。
tóng shì tiān yá lún luò rén xiāng féng hé bì céng xiāng shí
同是天涯淪落人，相逢何必曾相識
wǒ cóng qù nián cí dì jīng zhé jū wò bìng xún yáng chéng
我從去年辭帝京，謫居卧病潯陽城。
xún yáng dì pì wú yīn yuè zhōng suì bù wén sī zhú shēng
潯陽地僻無音樂，終歲不聞絲竹聲。
zhù jìn pén jiāng dì dī shī huáng lú kǔ zhú rào zhái shēng
住近湓江地低濕，黃蘆苦竹繞宅生。
qí jiān dàn mù wén hé wù dù juān tí xuè yuán āi míng
其間旦暮聞何物？杜鵑啼血猿哀鳴。
chūn jiāng huā cháo qiū yuè yè wǎng wǎng qǔ jiǔ huán dú qīng
春江花朝秋月夜，往往取酒還獨傾。
qǐ wú shān gē yǔ cūn dí ǒu yǎ cháo zhā nán wei tīng
豈無山歌與村笛，嘔啞嘲哳難為聽
jīn yè wén jūn pí pá yǔ rú tīng xiān lè ěr zàn míng
今夜聞君琵琶語，如聽仙樂耳暫明。
mò cí gèng zuò dàn yī qǔ wéi jūn fān zuò pí pá xíng
莫辭更坐彈一曲，為君翻作琵琶行。
gǎn wǒ cǐ yán liáng jiǔ lì què zuò cù xián xián zhuǎn jí
感我此言良久立，卻坐促弦弦轉急。
qī qī bù sì xiàng qián shēng mǎn zuò zhòng wén jiē yǎn qì
凄凄不似向前聲，滿座重聞皆掩泣。
zuò zhōng qì xià shuí zuì duō jiāng zhōu sī mǎ qīng shān shī
座中泣下誰最多，江州司馬青衫濕
Bai Chuyi：
THE SONG OF A GUITAR
In the tenth year of Yuanhe I was banished and demoted to be assistant official in Jiujiang. In the summer of the next year I was seeing a friend leave Penpu and heard in the midnight from a neighbouring boat a guitar played in the manner of the capital. Upon inquiry, I found that the player had formerly been a dancing-girl there and in her maturity had been married to a merchant. I invited her to my boat to have her play for us. She told me her story, heyday and then unhappiness. Since my departure from the capital I had not felt sad; but that night, after I left her, I began to realize my banishment. And I wrote this long poem -- six hundred and twelve characters.
I was bidding a guest farewell, at night on the Xunyang River,
Where maple-leaves and full-grown rushes rustled in the autumn.
I, the host, had dismounted, my guest had boarded his boat,
And we raised our cups and wished to drink-but, alas, there was no music.
For all we had drunk we felt no joy and were parting from each other,
When the river widened mysteriously toward the full moon --
We had heard a sudden sound, a guitar across the water.
Host forgot to turn back home, and guest to go his way.
We followed where the melody led and asked the player's name.
The sound broke off...then reluctantly she answered.
We moved our boat near hers, invited her to join us,
Summoned more wine and lanterns to recommence our banquet.
Yet we called and urged a thousand times before she started toward us,
Still hiding half her face from us behind her guitar.
...She turned the tuning-pegs and tested several strings;
We could feel what she was feeling, even before she played:
Each string a meditation, each note a deep thought,
As if she were telling us the ache of her whole life.
She knit her brows, flexed her fingers, then began her music,
Little by little letting her heart share everything with ours.
She brushed the strings, twisted them slow, swept them, plucked them --
First the air of The Rainbow Skirt, then The Six Little Ones.
The large strings hummed like rain,
The small strings whispered like a secret,
Hummed, whispered-and then were intermingled
Like a pouring of large and small pearls into a plate of jade.
We heard an oriole, liquid, hidden among flowers.
We heard a brook bitterly sob along a bank of sand...
By the checking of its cold touch, the very string seemed broken
As though it could not pass; and the notes, dying away
Into a depth of sorrow and concealment of lament,
Told even more in silence than they had told in sound....
A silver vase abruptly broke with a gush of water,
And out leapt armored horses and weapons that clashed and smote --
And, before she laid her pick down, she ended with one stroke,
And all four strings made one sound, as of rending silk
There was quiet in the east boat and quiet in the west,
And we saw the white autumnal moon enter the river's heart.
...When she had slowly placed the pick back among the strings,
She rose and smoothed her clothing and, formal, courteous,
Told us how she had spent her girlhood at the capital,
Living in her parents' house under the Mount of Toads,
And had mastered the guitar at the age of thirteen,
With her name recorded first in the class-roll of musicians,
Her art the admiration even of experts,
Her beauty the envy of all the leading dancers,
How noble youths of Wuling had lavishly competed
And numberless red rolls of silk been given for one song,
And silver combs with shell inlay been snapped by her rhythms,
And skirts the colour of blood been spoiled with stains of wine....
Season after season, joy had followed joy,
Autumn moons and spring winds had passed without her heeding,
Till first her brother left for the war, and then her aunt died,
And evenings went and evenings came, and her beauty faded --
With ever fewer chariots and horses at her door;
So that finally she gave herself as wife to a merchant
Who, prizing money first, careless how he left her,
Had gone, a month before, to Fuliang to buy tea.
And she had been tending an empty boat at the river's mouth,
No company but the bright moon and the cold water.
And sometimes in the deep of night she would dream of her triumphs
And be wakened from her dreams by the scalding of her tears.
Her very first guitar-note had started me sighing;
Now, having heard her story, I was sadder still.
"We are both unhappy -- to the sky's end.
We meet. We understand. What does acquaintance matter?
I came, a year ago, away from the capital
And am now a sick exile here in Jiujiang --
And so remote is Jiujiang that I have heard no music,
Neither string nor bamboo, for a whole year.
My quarters, near the River Town, are low and damp,
With bitter reeds and yellowed rushes all about the house.
And what is to be heard here, morning and evening? --
The bleeding cry of cuckoos, the whimpering of apes.
On flowery spring mornings and moonlit autumn nights
I have often taken wine up and drunk it all alone,
Of course there are the mountain songs and the village pipes,
But they are crude and-strident, and grate on my ears.
And tonight, when I heard you playing your guitar,
I felt as if my hearing were bright with fairymusic.
Do not leave us. Come, sit down. Play for us again.
And I will write a long song concerning a guitar."
...Moved by what I said, she stood there for a moment,
Then sat again to her strings-and they sounded even sadder,
Although the tunes were different from those she had played before....
The feasters, all listening, covered their faces.
But who of them all was crying the most?
This Jiujiang official. My blue sleeve was wet.
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