那世裡造下 In Which Former Life
卻說孫行者跳在九霄，全了性命。見妖兵回轉，不張旗號，已知眾等遭擒。他卻按下祥光，落在那東山頂上，咬牙恨怪物，滴淚想唐僧，仰面朝天望，悲嗟忽失聲。叫道：「師父啊，你是那世裡造下這迍邅難，今世裡步步遇妖精？似這般苦楚難逃，怎生是好？」却说孙行者跳在九霄，全了性命。见妖兵回转，不张旗号，已知众等遭擒。他却按下祥光，落在那东山顶上，咬牙恨怪物，滴泪想唐僧，仰面朝天望，悲嗟忽失声。叫道：「师父啊，你是那世里造下这迍邅难，今世里步步遇妖精？似这般苦楚难逃，怎生是好？」
逐句解 Line by line
Now Sun the Pilgrim, having leapt into the ninth heaven, had kept his life whole.
全了性命 is put as an achievement rather than an escape — kept his life whole. It is the second of the chapter's two uses of 性命, the first being his own complaint to Eight Rules about the luggage.
He saw the demon troops going back without their flags flying, and knew at once that the rest had been taken.
不張旗號, the banners not raised — an army coming back in triumph would have them up. He works out what has happened without being told, which is the one thing he does reliably well in this chapter.
He brought his auspicious light down and landed on the top of the eastern hill — gritting his teeth in hatred of the monster, dropping tears at the thought of the Tang Monk, lifting his face to look at the sky, and suddenly losing his voice in grief.
The last four clauses run five characters each and are strictly parallel: verse in everything except where it is printed. The source sets them on a prose line, and the printer's own layout is what decides. 朝 is cháo, to face.
He called out: "Master! In which former life did you lay up this floundering calamity, that in this one you meet a demon at every step?"
迍邅難 is the exact phrase Tripitaka used of himself in the poem, now handed straight back to him by the man who was listening. 那 reads nǎ, the interrogative — in which life — and 難 is nàn, a calamity.
"Suffering like this and no escaping it — what is to be done?"
難 is nán again here, the adverb, four characters after the nàn of the calamity — one character, two readings, one sentence apart. 怎生是好 is the everyday phrase for being at a loss, and he is asking it of a man who cannot hear him.
Pilgrim on a hilltop at night, alone for the second time in this chapter and this time crying. The four parallel clauses that put him there — teeth, tears, face lifted, voice gone — are verse in everything but their printing, and the novel does not often give him that treatment.
What he says is addressed to a man hanging from a beam a mountain away. He asks in which former life the master laid up this calamity, using the same three characters Tripitaka used of himself when he was crying in the dark and Pilgrim was listening at the other end of the room.
It is also, for the first time in the chapter, a question with no plan behind it. Every earlier difficulty had a next thing to try — grow, shrink, drill, summon, smash, steal. 怎生是好 has nothing after it, and the passage ends there.