Blaming Sons


 * [An apology for his own drunkenness]

hair covers my temples, I am wrinkled and seared beyond repair. And though I have got five sons, They all hate paper and brush. A-shu is eighteen: For laziness there is none like him. A-hsüan does his best, But really loathes the Fine Arts. Yung-tuan is thirteen. But does not know "six" from "seven." T'ung-tzŭ in his ninth year Is only concerned with things to eat. If Heaven treats me like this, What can I do but fill my cup?

責子