But let us set aside Guangrui at his post and Xuanzang at his religious labors.

光蕊 is Chén Guāngruì, Xuanzang's father in the interpolated 陳光蕊 chapter, and 玄奘 (Xuánzàng) the foundling monk 江流兒 grown to manhood. The formula 且不題… ('but not to tell of…') is the storyteller's device for turning from one thread to another; 盡 in 盡職 is read jìn.

Our tale takes up instead the banks of the Jing River outside the city of Chang'an, where there dwelt two worthy men: one a fisherman named Zhang Shao, the other a woodcutter named Li Ding.

涇河 (Jīng hé), the Jing, a real tributary of the Wei west of Chang'an, whose dragon-king will soon set the plot in motion. 卻說 ('but to tell of…') resumes the narration on a fresh thread; 長 in 長安 is cháng, and 稍 in 張稍 is shāo.

The two were, so to speak, unranked scholars who had never sat the examinations, literate men of the wilds.

A wry paradox: 進士 (jìnshì, 'presented scholar,' the highest examination degree) qualified by 不登科 ('who never passed the examinations'). They have a scholar's cultivation without a scholar's rank; 山人 is a recluse, a man of the hills.

One day, having sold the firewood off their shoulders and the carp from their baskets in Chang'an, they went into a wineshop together, drank until they were half-tipsy, and, each carrying off a bottle, strolled back along the bank of the Jing at an easy pace.

貨 here is verbal, 'to sell off.' 半酣 is the pleasant condition of being half-drunk; 長 in 長安 is again cháng. The idyll of the two trades frames the debate to come.

Said Zhang Shao: 'Brother Li, to my mind those who scramble for fame lose their very persons to it; those who snatch at profit destroy their bodies for it; those who take office sleep as though bedded down with a tiger; those who bask in imperial favor go about with a snake up their sleeve. Reckon it all up, and none of it matches our clear waters and green hills — free and unfettered, content with plain fare, drifting along as fortune allows.'

The paired vices of the official world: 爭名 and 奪利, fame and gain. 抱虎而眠 ('to sleep embracing a tiger') and 袖蛇而走 ('to walk with a snake in one's sleeve') are proverbs for courting hidden peril; 為 in 為利 is wèi, 'for the sake of.' 那 ('those who…') is the demonstrative nà, and 隨緣, faintly Buddhist, is 'to go along with circumstance.'

Li Ding replied: 'Brother Zhang speaks with reason. Only, your clear waters are no match for my green hills.'

In 說得有理 the 得 is the resultative particle de; 那 in 你那水秀 is the demonstrative nà. So begins the friendly rivalry that structures the whole exchange.

Zhang Shao said: 'Your green hills are no match for my clear waters. I have a lyric to the tune Butterflies in Love with Flowers to prove it. The lyric runs:'

《蝶戀花》 (Diéliànhuā, 'Butterflies Longing for Flowers') is a standard 詞牌, a tune-title to which words are fitted; 為 in 為證 ('as proof') is wéi. What follows is the first of ten matched 詞 in the fisherman-and-woodcutter exchange.

Ten thousand lǐ of misty waves, and the little skiff rides light; leaning at ease against its lone canopy, I am wrapped in a murmur sweet as Xi Shi's own voice.

煙波 is mist-veiled water; 篷 the arched mat-canopy of a river-boat. 西施 (Xī Shī), the archetypal beauty of ancient Yue, lends her 'voice' to the bewitching softness of the water's sound; 里 is kept as lǐ.

Rinsing away every care and washing the heart clean, fame and gain grow few; idly I pluck at the spikes of smartweed and the blades of the reeds.

滌慮洗心 is to cleanse thought and heart of worldly attachment. 蓼 (liǎo, smartweed) and 蒹葭 (jiānjiā, unripe reeds) are plants of the water-margin, familiar since the Book of Songs.

A scattering of sand-gulls is company enough to delight in the Way; on the willow bank, in the reedy cove, my wife and children laugh together with me.

樂道 is to take joy in the Way of the recluse; 樂 is lè. In 妻子 the 子 is the full-sense zǐ, 'wife and children'; 堪 means 'fit or enough to.'

One good sleep, and wind and wave alike subside; no glory, no disgrace, and not a single care.

一 is read yí before the falling tone of 覺 (jué). 榮辱, honor and humiliation, are the poles of the official life here renounced; the closing 」 ends Zhang Shao's speech.

Li Ding said: 'Your clear waters are no match for my green hills. I too have a lyric to Butterflies in Love with Flowers to prove it. It runs:'

The woodcutter answers in kind, capping tune with the same tune — the formal principle of the whole exchange, each man matching the other 詞牌 for 詞牌; 為 in 為證 is wéi.

A stretch of cloud-wrapped woods, brimming with pine-pollen; in silence I listen to the orioles cry, their nimble tongues like the tuning of a reed-pipe.

松花 is the yellow pollen of pines, a mark of late spring; 一段 a stretch or expanse. 調 in 調管 ('to tune a wind-pipe') is read tiáo.

The reds thin and the greens grow lush as spring warms to its height, then all at once summer arrives and the seasons wheel on.

紅瘦綠肥 ('red grown thin, green grown fat') is a stock lyric image for blossoms falling as the leaves fill out; 倏然 is 'suddenly,' 光陰 ('light and shade') is time itself.

Then comes autumn's turn, changing as lightly as before; the yellow chrysanthemums are fragrant, fit to be savored.

黃花 is the chrysanthemum, flower of the ninth month; 供玩 is 'to offer for one's enjoyment,' and 值 'to fall on' a season.

Harsh winter passes as swiftly as a snap of the fingers; through all four seasons I roam free, with no one to answer to.

如指撚 ('like a twist of the fingers') means in an instant; 逍遙, a word from the Zhuangzi, is 'free and unfettered,' and 無人管 is 'with no one to govern me.' The 」 closes Li Ding's turn.