The Lyric of Fineness runs:

The third title, and the third character of the phrase.

Fine, fine, fine — a jade girl, an immortal beauty. Deeply to be loved, truly to be praised. Strange fragrance thick about her, powder and rouge laid on together.

玉女 is a specific thing rather than a compliment: the jade girls are the attendant women of the Daoist heavens, and calling a bride one puts her a grade above human. Which is a nervous thing to be doing in this chapter, given what the reader has been told about her.

The blessed land of Tiantai is far away — when could it compare with the house of a king? Laughter and talk on every side, and a charming manner; pipes and singing wind about and the noise goes up.

Tiantai is the mountain in the old story where two men went to gather herbs, met two women who took them home, stayed half a year and came back to find seven generations gone. It is the standard image for a mortal man taken in by an otherworldly woman. So the lyric's boast is that the palace is better than Tiantai — and the story it has just invoked is one about a man who marries something that is not a woman and loses his whole life to it. The poem is flattering the king with the plot of the chapter. 嘩 in 喧嘩 is huá, a din of voices.

Flowers heaped and brocade laid, a thousand kinds of beauty; look the whole world over — how could any of them match her?

The lyric closes on a challenge nobody in the room can answer, and the reader can. There is one other woman who could match her, and she is chained in a back cell at the Almsgiver's monastery a hundred and some lǐ behind them, where Pilgrim saw her in the last chapter.

The Lyric of Marriage runs:

The fourth and last title, completing the phrase.

Marriage, marriage, marriage — orchid and musk breathing out their scent. Ranks of immortal maidens, a crowd of lovely women. The consorts change into coloured silk, the princess is newly dressed.

仙子 here is a full-tone noun — ranks of immortal maidens — and not the light-sounding word-ending the same character makes in 獃子, the idiot, or 耍子, larking about. This chapter uses it both ways.

Cloud-tresses piled in raven coils, rainbow skirts pressing down phoenix gowns. A strain of immortal music, clear and ringing; two ranks of crimson and purple, brilliant and confused. In that year the pledge of riding the phoenix was made, and this morning, happily, the fine match is met.

兩行 is liǎng háng, two ranks — the one place in this chapter where the character means a row and not going or walking. The other thirty-four uses are all the other reading, including the travelling party in the garden two days ago, which looks identical and is not. The last line closes the whole set on the phrase the four titles have been spelling out. 乘鸞, riding the phoenix, is the flute-player of Qin and the duke's daughter who rode away on the birds together — the same story the garden rhapsody put on its phoenix terrace. The wedding poems and the garden have been telling the same story all along. And 今朝 is jīn zhāo, this morning, one of only two places in the chapter where the character is a morning rather than the imperial court.