The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2 On the Fên's banks the poor are found,
Who pluck the mulberry leaves around,
A little gain to make.
In grace and beauty like a flower,
That officer himself doth lower,
Such small mean ways to take.
The cars of state to marshal is his charge;—
Strange such high post his mind should not enlarge!
3Where the Fên bends to join the Ho,
For ox-lip leaves the people go,
Some nourishment to find. p. 118
That officer we gemlike call,
Yet shrinks he not from ways as small,
To greed too much inclined.
The ruler's kindred he has for his care;—
Should he not show a loftier character?