English (machine translation)
Translation of 佛所行讚
- Language
- English
- Extent
- 74 passages, 59,864 words
- Text
- complete digital text
- Source
- pramana-mt · Machine translation by Gemini 3.8 Flash (2026-10-21) of… · Machine output without human authorship: no copyright is claimed (CC0 1.0). The original text keeps its own…
Contents
Text
1.1
Composed by Bodhisattva Aśvaghoṣa.
1.2
Translated by Dharmakṣema, Tripiṭaka Master of India, under the Northern Liang.
1.3
Chapter 1: The Birth
1.4
A scion of the Ikṣvāku line, the invincible king of the Śākyas,
Possessing pure wealth and fully endowed with virtue, was thus named Śuddhodana.
All living beings rejoiced to gaze upon him, just as at the crescent moon.
The king was like Śakra Devendra, and his queen was like Śacī;
Her resolve was as steady as the earth, her mind as pure as a lotus.
Metaphorically named Māyā, in truth she was without peer.
Upon that queen of heavenly bearing, [the Bodhisattva] descended his spirit to dwell in her womb.
The mother was entirely free from grief and suffering, nor did any deceitful thoughts arise in her;
Disdaining the noisy worldly life, she delighted in staying in secluded groves.
In the supreme garden of Lumbinī, springs flowed, flowers and fruits flourished;
Quiet and calm, it was suited to quiet meditation, so she petitioned the king to let her go wandering there.
The king, knowing her wish, regarded it as extraordinary,
And ordered the retinue of both inner and outer courts to proceed together to that park.
At that time, Queen Māyā knew within herself that the time of birth had arrived;
She lay down peacefully on an auspicious couch, attended by hundreds of thousands of palace maidens.
It was on the eighth day of the fourth month, when the weather was mild and harmonious;
Observing the precepts and cultivating pure virtue, the Bodhisattva was born from her right side;
With great compassion to rescue the world, he caused no pain or affliction to his mother.
King Aurva was born from a thigh, King Pṛthu was born from a hand,
King Māndhātṛ was born from the crown of the head, and King Kakṣīvat was born from an armpit.
Just so was the Bodhisattva: he was born from the right side;
Gradually emerging from the womb, his radiance illuminated everywhere,
As if falling from open space, not issuing through the birth canal.
Having cultivated virtue for measureless kalpas, knowing for himself birth and deathlessness,
Steadfast and unshaken, distinct, wondrous, upright, and majestic.
With sudden brilliance he emerged from the womb, just like the rising sun;
Looking upon him, he was dazzlingly bright, yet did not hurt the faculty of sight.
Gazing directly at him, it was not blinding, like looking at the moon in the sky;
His own light shone forth, just as the sun outshines the brightness of lamps;
The Bodhisattva’s body of real gold illuminated everywhere in just this way.
Upright, true, his mind undistracted, he took seven paces with measured dignity;
Beneath his feet were flat, even soles, bright and clear like the seven stars.
With the stride of a lion, king of beasts, he gazed toward the four directions;
Thoroughly penetrating the true meaning, he was capable of speaking thus:
“This birth is a birth for Buddhahood, and it shall be my very last birth;
In this single lifetime alone, I shall deliver all [beings].”
At that time, in the open sky, two streams of pure water flowed down—
One warm and one cool—bathing his head to bring joy to his body.
Resting peacefully in a jeweled palace, he lay upon a lapis lazuli couch;
The golden-flowered hands of the Deva-kings upheld the four legs of the couch.
In the sky, the devas held aloft jeweled parasols to attend upon him;
Bearing his divine majesty, they praised him, exhorting him to accomplish the Buddha way.
The Nāgarājas rejoiced, thirsting for the sublime Dharma;
Having formerly served past Buddhas, they now encountered the Bodhisattva.
They scattered māndārava flowers, single-mindedly delighting in making offerings.
The Tathāgata’s appearance in the world brought joy to the Śuddhāvāsa devas;
Having already eliminated the joy of sensual desire, they rejoiced for the sake of the Dharma,
Because living beings sinking in the ocean of suffering would be made to attain liberation.
Mount Sumeru, the king of jeweled mountains, firmly supports this great earth;
Yet when the Bodhisattva appeared in the world, blown by the wind of his merit,
It shook and trembled everywhere, like a boat tossed by the wind upon the waves.
Powdered sandalwood incense, and lotus matrices adorned with all kinds of gems,
Flowed through the empty sky blown by the wind, falling down in profusion;
Heavenly robes descended from the sky, bringing sublime joy to whatever body they touched.
The sun and moon moved in their usual course, yet their radiance doubled in brilliance;
All the world’s fires flared up naturally without fuel;
Wells of pure, cool water sprang up spontaneously all around.
The palace maidens within marveled at what had never been seen before,
Racing to drink and bathe in them, all feeling secure and joyful.
Innumerable bhūtas and devas, delighting in the Dharma, gathered like clouds,
Filling the spaces between the trees throughout the Lumbinī grove.
Rare and wondrous flowers blossomed out of season;
Cruel and violent creatures suddenly gave rise to minds of compassion;
All the diseases of the world vanished naturally without treatment.
The birds and beasts that shrieked in confusion grew calm, silent, and soundless;
The myriad rivers ceased their flowing, and turbid waters all became clear;
In the sky there was no obscuring cloud, and heavenly drums resounded spontaneously.
All the worlds attained peace and joy,
Just as a ruined and troubled land suddenly gains a wise and enlightened sovereign.
The reason the Bodhisattva was born was to save the world from its many sufferings;
Only the Deva-king Māra was shaken with great sorrow and distress.
The royal father, seeing the newborn son, so extraordinary and unprecedented,
Though dignified and steady by nature, was astonished and altered his customary composure;
Two feelings arose together within his chest: joy on the one hand, and fear on the other.
The queen, seeing that her son was not born by the ordinary path,
And being timid by a woman’s nature, was alarmed and full of conflicting extremes,
Unable to tell good portents from bad, she only felt increased anxiety and dread.
All the elderly matrons prayed to the gods in frantic confusion,
Each entreating her customary deity, wishing peace for the prince.
At that time, in that forest, was a brāhmaṇa who understood physiognomy,
Possessing dignified deportment, vast learning, talent, eloquence, and high renown;
Seeing the signs, his heart rejoiced, leaping with unprecedented joy.
Knowing that the king’s heart was terrified, he spoke the truth to the king:
“When people are born into the world, they seek only an exceptional son.
Your Majesty is now like the full moon, and ought to feel great joy;
Now that an extraordinary son is born, he will certainly bring glory to your lineage.
Calm your mind and rejoice within yourself, do not harbor any lingering doubts;
Spiritual omens have converged upon your clan and country, which will flourish all the more from now on.
The exceptional son born to you will surely be the savior of the world;
Considering the body of this superior man, with its wondrous golden radiance,
With such exceptional signs, he will surely become a Samyaksambuddha;
If he takes pleasure in worldly life, he will surely become a Cakravartin,
Ruler of the entire earth, governing with valor and through the saddharma,
Ruling over the four continents, holding dominion over all kings.
Just as of the world’s lights, the light of the sun is supreme,
So if he abides in the mountain forests, single-mindedly seeking liberation,
He will attain true wisdom, illuminating the world everywhere,
Just as Mount Sumeru is king over all mountains.
Among all treasures, gold is foremost; among all streams, the sea is foremost;
Among the constellations, the moon is foremost; among all luminaries, the sun is foremost;
When the Tathāgata dwells in the world, he is foremost among two-footed beings.
His pure eyes are long and wide, his upper and lower eyelashes long,
His steady gaze is deep sapphire-blue, radiant like the crescent moon;
How could these signs not be the equal, supreme eyes?”
Then the king said to the dvija: “If it is as you say,
What is the reason that such extraordinary signs
Did not appear under the former kings, but only now in my reign?”
The brāhmaṇa said to the king: “You should not speak in this way.
Vast learning and wisdom, renown and achievements—
These four matters should not be measured by earlier or later.
That which is born of the nature of things arises from cause and condition;
I shall now speak in analogies, may Your Majesty listen attentively.
The Bhṛgus and the Aṅgirases, these two families of ṛṣis,
Passed through long, distant ages before each produced an extraordinary son.
Bṛhaspati and Śukra
Were able to compose treatises on kingship, which did not come from their ancestral lines.
The ṛṣi Sārasvata saw the scriptures and treatises long broken off,
Yet Aurva was born, who continued and revived the scriptures and treatises.
Present understanding and insight do not necessarily stem from ancestors:
The ṛṣi Vyāsa composed many scriptures and treatises,
And his later descendant Vālmīki compiled stanzas and verses in vast number.
The ṛṣi Atri did not understand the treatise on medicine,
Yet later Ātreya was born, who could well heal the hundred diseases.
The dvija Kuśika was unversed in heterodox treatises,
Yet later King Gāthina completely understood the heterodox teachings.
The founding clan of King Ikṣvāku could not control the ocean tide,
Until King Sagara fathered a thousand princes,
Who were able to control the great ocean’s tide so that it did not exceed its usual bounds.
The ṛṣi Janaka attained the way of dhyāna without a teacher.
Whoever achieves renown does so through their own power;
Sometimes the earlier is superior and the later inferior, sometimes the earlier is inferior and the later superior.
Kings and divine ṛṣis do not necessarily inherit from their original clans;
Therefore, in the world, one should not judge by earlier or later.
Great King, it is just so now: you ought to give rise to a joyful heart;
Because of a joyful heart, you will be forever free from doubts.”
Hearing the ṛṣi’s words, the king rejoiced and increased his offerings:
“Now that an exceptional son is born to me, he should succeed to the throne of a Cakravartin;
I am already aged and decrepit; I shall go forth and cultivate brahmacarya,
So that the noble prince will not abandon the world to roam in the mountain forests.”
At that time, in a nearby park, there was an ascetic ṛṣi
Named Asita, who was well versed in the art of physiognomy;
He came to the king’s palace gate, and the king thought Brahmā had responded.
Ascetic practice and joy in the saddharma—these two signs appeared together;
Endowed with the signs of pure practice, the king greatly rejoiced.
He at once invited him into the palace, respectfully made offerings to him,
And was about to take him into the inner chambers, for [the ṛṣi] only wished to see the prince.
Though there were crowds of palace maidens, [the ṛṣi] was as if in a secluded grove;
The king seated him on a seat of saddharma, honoring and serving him with heightened reverence,
Just as King Antideva served Vasiṣṭha.
Then the king said to the ṛṣi: “I have gained great benefit today;
Having troubled the great ṛṣi to deign to come and accept me,
Whatever ought to be done, I pray you will instruct me in due time.”
Having been thus invited, the great ṛṣi was overjoyed:
“Excellent, O ever-victorious king! You are endowed with all virtues;
Loving those who come to seek, bestowing gifts and honoring the saddharma,
Of a benevolent, wise, and distinguished lineage, humble, respectful, and compliant.
Having planted many wondrous causes in the past, the superior fruit appears today;
You must listen to what I say, the reason for my coming today.
I came along the sun’s path, and heard the devas in the sky say
That a prince was born to the king who will achieve the path of true enlightenment.
Moreover, having seen earlier auspicious portents, I have come here for this reason,
Desiring to see the Śākya king establish the banner of the saddharma.”
Hearing the ṛṣi’s words, the king was definitively freed from the net of doubts;
He commanded that the prince be brought forth to be shown to the ṛṣi.
The ṛṣi observed the prince: on the soles of his feet were thousand-spoked wheels,
His fingers and toes were webbed, a white curl of hair stood between his eyebrows,
His male organ was concealed like that of a horse, and his complexion was radiant with blazing light;
Seeing this, he had an unprecedented realization, and shedding tears, he sighed deeply.
The king, seeing the ṛṣi weep, trembled in his heart for his son;
His breath caught and filled his chest, he was alarmed and could not calm himself.
Unconsciously rising from his seat, he bowed his head to the ṛṣi’s feet,
And said to the ṛṣi: “This child was born extraordinarily,
His appearance is exceedingly upright and majestic, scarcely different from devas and humans;
You say he is supreme among men, so why do you give rise to sorrow and grief?
Could it be that he is a short-lived child, who will cause me sorrow and grief?
Having gained amṛta after long thirst, am I to lose it again?
Could it be that I will lose my wealth and treasures, ruin my family, and destroy my kingdom?
If an exceptional son survives, the kingdom’s succession will have someone to entrust to;
When I die, my mind will be pleased, and I will be born peacefully in another world,
Like a man with two eyes: one asleep and one awake.
Let him not be like autumn frost flowers, which bloom but bear no fruit;
Among one’s kin, there is no deeper love than that for a child.
Please explain it in good time, so that I may find relief.”
The ṛṣi, knowing that the royal father harbored great sorrow and dread,
At once spoke to the king: “Great King, do not be terrified;
I have already told the Great King: take care not to give rise to doubts yourself;
The signs are now just as before, you should not harbor different thoughts;
I was only reflecting on my advanced age, and in sorrow and regret I wept and sighed.
Now as I face the end of my life, this child appears and is born into the world;
Born to put an end to birth, such a person is difficult to meet.
He will abandon the position of a noble king, not clinging to the realm of the five desires;
Zealously cultivating ascetic practices, he will awaken and attain the truth.
He will forever destroy the hindrance of the darkness of folly for all living beings,
And will blaze eternally in the world with the sun-like light of wisdom.
Living beings are sinking in the sea of suffering, with many illnesses as its gathering foam,
Decrepit old age as its giant billows, and death as the ocean’s surging waves.
Boarding the light boat of wisdom, he will ferry them across these many currents of distress;
With wisdom as the counter-current and pure precepts as its banks,
Samādhi as a cool pool, and right concentration as its flock of wondrous birds,
Such is the exceedingly deep and wide great river of the saddharma.
Living beings tormented by thirst and craving will drink from it to find relief;
Stained by attachment to the realm of the five desires, driven and oppressed by many sufferings,
Lost in the wilderness of birth and death, knowing not where to turn;
The Bodhisattva appears in the world to open the path of liberation for them.
The fire of worldly greed blazes high with the fuel of sense-objects;
He will raise the cloud of mahākaruṇā and rain down the rain of Dharma to extinguish it.
The thick doors of the darkness of ignorance, with greed as their bolt and key,
Shut off all living beings from the essential gate of emergence and liberation;
With the vajra pincers of wisdom, he will extract the rebellious drill of affection.
Entangled in their own web of foolish ignorance, impoverished and destitute with no refuge;
The Dharma King appears in the world and is able to untie the bonds of living beings.
O King, do not give rise to sorrow, grief, or distress over this child;
You should rather grieve for those living beings who cling to desire and transgress the saddharma.
I am now decaying in old age and death, far removed from holy merits;
Though I have attained the various dhyānas, I will not reap this benefit.
From this Bodhisattva, I shall never hear the saddharma;
When my body breaks up and my life ends, I will surely be born in one of the heavens of the three difficulties.”
The king and all his retinue, hearing the ṛṣi speak,
Knew that he was lamenting for himself, and their terror was completely dispelled:
“Now that this extraordinary child is born, my heart has found great peace.
Yet if he goes forth, abandons worldly glory, and practices the way of ṛṣis,
Failing to succeed to the throne of the kingdom, that would again make me unhappy.”
At that time, that ṛṣi spoke the truth to the king:
“It will surely be as the king fears: he will accomplish the path of true enlightenment.”
Among the king’s retinue, having comforted their hearts,
By his own supernatural power, he soared into the void and departed far away.
At that time, King Śuddhodana, seeing his son’s extraordinary signs,
And having heard Asita speak the definitive truth,
Respected his son in his heart, treasured, protected, and constantly thought of him,
Granting a great amnesty to all under heaven, freeing all from prisons.
According to worldly customs for the birth of a son, what was fitting to adopt or discard
In reliance on various scriptures, prescriptions, and treatises, all of it was carried out.
Ten days after the birth of the son, the king’s mind was calm and fully at ease;
He offered sacrifices everywhere to the devas and spirits, and gave vast alms to those who possessed the way.
Śramaṇas and brāhmaṇas recited blessings and prayed for auspicious fortune;
He gave gifts to all the ministers, as well as to the impoverished in the realm.
To maidens from villages and cities, and in cattle, horses, elephants, and money,
He supplied all according to what they needed.
Divining and choosing an auspicious time, he brought the child back to the original palace,
In a chariot adorned with the seven treasures and pure white ivory;
Intertwined with variegated pearls, its blazing radiance was exceedingly lustrous;
The queen held the prince, bowing to the devas and spirits all around.
Then she mounted the jeweled chariot, attended by crowds of palace maidens,
While the king, together with all his ministers and people, formed a procession.
It was just like Śakra Devendra, surrounded by the hosts of devas,
Or like Maheśvara when he suddenly fathered his six-faced child.
Arranging all kinds of equipment, making offerings and praying for blessings,
Now as the king fathered a prince, his preparations were likewise elaborate.
When the Deva-king Vaiśravaṇa fathered Naḷakūbara,
All the hosts of devas were filled with great joy;
Now that the king had fathered a prince, in the city of Kapilavastu,
All the people rejoiced in just the same way.
1.5
Buddhacarita: Life in the Palace, Chapter 2
1.6
At that time, in King Śuddhodana’s household, because a holy son had been born,
kinsmen and noble scions, and all the ministers were loyal and virtuous.
Elephants, horses, precious chariots and carriages, the realm's wealth and vessels of seven treasures,
increased in excellence day by day, gathering and coming forth as if in answer.
Innumerable hidden treasures naturally welled up from the earth;
from the pure Snowy Mountains, herds of wild, white elephants
came naturally without being summoned, and were tamed without being driven.
Horses of diverse colors, their forms and bodies exceedingly graceful,
with red manes and slender, long tails, galloped and leapt as swiftly as if flying;
born of the wilderness, they naturally arrived in due season.
Cattle of uniform hue, well-tamed and gentle, plump and sturdy with well-formed shapes,
walked steadily and gave sweet-fragrant milk, gathering like clouds in due season.
Those who bore hatred had their minds calmed; the neutral grew ever more sincere and generous;
those who were already close increased in intimacy; rebellion and insurrection were utterly dispelled.
Gentle breezes brought rain in season; thunderbolts did not crash or tear;
seeds planted did not await the season to sprout, and the harvested fruits were doubly abundant.
The five grains were fresh, fragrant, and delicious, light, soft, and easy to digest;
all pregnant women enjoyed physical ease, their bodies comfortable and well-suited.
Except for those who embraced the four holy lineages, all other worldly folk
had their livelihood fully met, with no thought of seeking anything from another.
They were without pride, stinginess, or jealousy, nor was there any malice or harmful intent;
all men and women were mysteriously akin to the people of the first aeon.
Shrines to the gods, monasteries and houses, gardens, groves, wells, springs, and ponds—
all were like celestial objects, naturally arising in due season.
Throughout the entire territory there was no hunger; warfare, illness, and epidemics ceased;
all the people within the kingdom loved and respected their relatives.
Rejoicing together in the love of Dharma, they gave rise to no defiling desires;
seeking wealth and goods through righteousness, they harbored no greed for gain.
They practiced charity for the sake of Dharma, with no thought of seeking recompense;
they cultivated the four pure abodes and extinguished malicious and harmful thoughts.
In the past, King Manu gave birth to Prince Sūryaprabha,
and the whole realm received good fortune, while all evils ceased at once;
now the king had fathered a prince whose virtue was just the same:
because he was endowed with the full meaning of all virtues, he was named Siddhārtha.
Then Queen Māyā, seeing the son she had borne,
handsome as a divine youth, fully endowed with all beauties,
was overcome with a joy she could not endure, and dying, was born into heaven.
Mahāprajāpatī Gautamī, seeing the prince like a divine youth,
his virtue and countenance wonderfully preeminent in the world, whose mother died soon after giving birth,
loved and nurtured him like her own son, and the son revered her like a mother.
Just as the light of the sun, moon, and fire gradually broadens from a tiny glow,
the prince grew with each passing day, and so too did his virtue and countenance.
Priceless sandalwood incense, famous jambūnada gold,
and divine medicines to protect the body, along with necklaces, adorned his form.
Vassal and neighboring kingdoms, hearing that the king had fathered a prince,
presented various rare treasures: cattle, sheep, deer, horses, carriages,
and precious vessels and adornments to help gladden the prince's heart.
Although there were these various adornments and playthings for infants,
the prince was calm and dignified by nature; young in form, he was aged in mind.
His mind lodged in a lofty and superior realm, unstained by worldly glory;
studying and practicing various arts, at a single hearing he surpassed his teachers.
The father-king, seeing his perspicacity and deeply concerned that he soared beyond the world,
widely sought among the distinguished, illustrious clans of refined teaching, etiquette, and righteousness.
A maiden of graceful posture and countenance named Yaśodharā
was betrothed as the prince's consort, to entice and retain his mind.
The prince’s aspirations were lofty and far-reaching; his virtue abundant and his countenance bright and clear,
like the eldest son of Brahmā, Sanatkumāra.
The virtuous consort possessed exquisite beauty, a delicate, graceful, and wondrous charm,
her splendid allure like that of a heavenly queen; dwelling together, they took delight day and night.
For him was built a pure palace, grand and magnificent, adorned to the utmost,
lofty and towering into empty space, remote and distant like an autumn cloud,
its warmth and coolness suited to the four seasons, choosing the finest dwelling according to the time.
Surrounded by troupes of dancing girls playing music matching heavenly sounds,
he was kept from contacting base sights and sounds
lest he give rise to thoughts of weariness with the world. Like the divine Gandharvas
in spontaneous, precious palaces, with music-girls playing celestial tones,
whose sounds and forms dazzle the heart and eyes, so too was the Bodhisattva in his lofty palace
surrounded by music. For the prince's sake,
the father-king dwelt quietly and cultivated pure virtue, ruling with benevolence and true Dharma,
associating with the worthy and keeping distant from evil friends; his heart was unstained by affection,
regarding desires as poison; restraining passion, he guarded his senses.
Dispelling all frivolous and agitated thoughts, with an amicable countenance he listened well to lawsuits,
and with benevolent instruction satisfied the hearts of the multitude. He converted the non-Buddhists,
cut off arts of treason, and taught methods to deliver the world,
so that all the people gained peace and joy. "Just as my son is to be at ease,
so too shall all the people be." He worshipped fire and served the gods,
clasping his hands and drinking the moonlight. He bathed his body in the Ganges,
and washed his mind in the water of Dharma; praying for blessings, it was not for himself,
but solely for his son and for all the people. Affectionate words were not without righteousness;
righteous words were not lacking in affection; affectionate words were not untrue;
true words were not without affection. Possessing shame and conscience,
he never failed to speak according to the truth; toward desirable and undesirable things,
he did not rely on thoughts of greed or wrath. His mind rested in silence and stillness;
with fairness and justice he put an end to disputes, not considering offerings at sacrificial assemblies
as superior to the merit of resolving cases. Seeing those who asked for much,
he gave abundant gifts that exceeded their hopes; his mind harbored no thought of battle,
subduing enemies through virtue. Taming one, he protected seven; / he discarded seven and curbed five; / he attained three and realized three; / he understood two and abandoned two.
Discerning their motives, he found their guilt, and toward those who deserved death he showed benevolence and mercy,
uttering no coarse or evil words, but instructing them with gentle speech,
striving to bestow wealth and goods, and pointing out the way to earn a livelihood.
He received instruction in the ways of the ṛṣis, and extinguished hatred and wrath;
his fame and virtue spread everywhere, and in this world [evil] was forever destroyed.
When the sovereign master cultivates illustrious virtue, the whole realm follows and emulates him,
just as when a person's heart is calm and still, the four limbs and all the senses comply.
Then King Śuddhodana’s prince and the virtuous consort Yaśodharā,
both gradually coming of age, conceived and gave birth to Rāhula.
King Śuddhodana reflected to himself: "The prince has now had a son;
from generation to generation they will succeed one another, and our righteous rule will have no end.
Since the prince has now had a son, his love for his child is just like mine;
no longer will he contemplate leaving home, but will only diligently cultivate the good.
Now my mind is greatly at peace, no different from the bliss of being born in heaven,
just as in the first aeon, on the path where the royal ṛṣis dwelt."
Loving the practice of pure deeds, his sacrifices did not harm living beings;
fervently he cultivated superior deeds, supreme among kings and supreme in pure conduct.
Supreme in clan, wealth, and treasures; supreme in bravery, valor, and skills,
he shone conspicuously, illuminating the world like the sun with its thousand rays of light.
The reason one acts as a king is to glorify one's son;
glorifying the son is for the sake of the clan, and bringing honor to the clan is for renown;
with high renown one gains birth in heaven, and being born in heaven is for pleasure;
having had pleasure, one's wisdom increases, realizing the way and propagating the true Dharma;
the place of the famous former conquerors, who received and practiced many wondrous paths.
He wished only that the prince, loving his child, would not renounce home.
All other kings, when their sons are still young,
do not let them rule the realm, fearing their minds will become heedless,
indulging their passions and clinging to worldly pleasures, unable to continue the royal lineage.
Now the king let the prince indulge the five desires as his heart pleased,
wishing only that he take delight in worldly glory, not desiring that he study the way.
Even though the path of past bodhisattva kings was profound and steadfast,
they inevitably experienced worldly glory and joy, fathering sons to continue the lineage,
and only afterward entered mountain forests to practice the path of silence.
1.7
Buddhacarita: Disenchantment, Chapter 3
1.8
Outside there were parks and groves, flowing springs and cool ponds,
manifold flowers and fruit trees, set in rows casting dark shade.
Various kinds of rare birds fluttered and played therein;
the four kinds of water and land flowers had flaming hues and poured forth fine fragrance.
The singing-girls, making music, sang to strings to inform the prince.
Hearing the music, the prince praised those parks and groves.
Within, his heart was overjoyed, and he longed to go out and view them,
just as a chained mad elephant ever yearns for the open wilderness.
When the father king heard that the prince took pleasure in going out to roam those gardens,
he at once commanded his ministers to make splendid decorations and prepare the retinue.
They leveled and cleared the royal road, removing all that was ugly and foul,
the aged, the diseased, the crippled, the frail, the impoverished and suffering,
so as not to cause the pleasure-loving youth to see them and conceive revulsion.
When the preparations were complete, [the prince] requested permission to take his leave.
Seeing the prince approach, the king stroked his head and gazed upon his countenance;
grief and joy intertwined in his feelings—his mouth consented, but his heart held him back.
A carriage adorned with myriad gems was hitched to four swift, smooth-pacing horses;
a virtuous and skilled youth of fair countenance and gentle grace,
wearing clean, splendid garments of fresh flowers, shared the carriage as charioteer.
Flowers were scattered over the streets and alleys; jeweled draperies covered the roadside;
trees lined the way, and precious vessels were set out as ornament;
silk canopies, banners, and streamers fluttered in confusion with the wind.
Spectators flanked the long roadway, standing sideways with eyes joined in radiance,
gazing without blinking, like blue lotuses planted side by side.
Ministers and people all escorted him, like stars following the king of constellations,
praising with different mouths but one voice, celebrating this rarity in the world.
Noble and base, rich and poor, old, young, and middle-aged—
all reverently bowed in homage, wishing only that he have good fortune.
In the towns, cities, and rural villages, hearing that the prince was to go forth,
high and low did not wait to take leave; waking and sleeping gave no notice to one another.
They had no time to gather their livestock, no time to collect their money and goods;
without even closing their gates and doors, they ran swiftly to the roadside.
From towers, dykes, ponds, and trees, between windows and across intersections and lanes,
turning sideways they jostled for a view, gazing insatiably without weariness.
Those high above seemed ready to leap to the ground; those on foot seemed to tread the void;
their minds were so concentrated that unawares, body and spirit seemed to fly together.
Piously and respectfully they gazed, with no thoughts of heedlessness:
"His limbs and joints are full and round, his complexion like an opening lotus;
now that he goes out to dwell in parks and groves, may he become a sage of the holy Dharma!"
The prince, seeing the well-kept road, the splendid retinue,
and the fresh luster of clothes and carriages, felt glad and rejoiced in his heart.
The people of the realm, beholding the prince's majestic bearing and supreme procession,
were just like the heavenly hosts seeing the birth of a heavenly prince.
Then the king of the Śuddhāvāsa heaven suddenly appeared by the roadside,
transforming his shape into an aged, decrepit form, to arouse revulsion [in the prince's heart].
Seeing the old man, the prince was startled and asked the charioteer:
"What sort of person is this? With white hair and a bent back,
dim eyes and trembling body, leaning on a cane as he feebly walks.
Did his body suddenly change like this, or was his nature originally so?"
The charioteer's heart hesitated, not daring to answer with the truth.
The Śuddhāvāsa god augmented him with supernatural power, causing him to speak true words:
"His complexion is altered, his breath feeble and faint; he has much sorrow and little joy;
prone to forgetfulness and with senses enfeebled—this is called the mark of old age.
This man was originally an infant, nourished on his mother's milk,
then as a boy he played and frolicked, handsome, indulging in the five desires;
with years departed, his form has withered and rotted, and now he is ruined by old age."
The prince sighed deeply and asked the charioteer:
"Is he alone aged and decrepit, or must we also be the same?"
The charioteer replied again: "My lord also has this share.
As time moves on, the form naturally changes; it must inevitably arrive, without doubt.
None who are young and robust do not grow old; the whole world knows this, yet seeks [pleasures]."
The Bodhisattva had long cultivated pure deeds of wisdom,
and widely planted the roots of virtue, whose fruits and flowers were now to appear.
Hearing the suffering of old age described, he shuddered and his hair stood on end,
like the sound of thunder and lightning that makes herds of beasts flee in fright.
The Bodhisattva was likewise terrified and sighed deeply;
fixing his mind on the suffering of old age, he nodded his head and stared fixedly:
"Reflecting on this suffering of old age, what can people of the world love and take pleasure in?
What the mark of old age destroys, it strikes without distinction;
though one possesses vigor, complexion, and strength, not one fails to change and pass away.
With the sign verified before my very eyes, how can I not turn away in revulsion?"
The Bodhisattva said to the charioteer: "We should quickly turn the carriage back.
With old age arriving thought by thought, what joy can there be in parks and groves?"
Receiving the order, [the charioteer] sped like the wind, the flying wheels returning to the palace.
With his mind dwelling on decay and the realm of the aged, like returning among empty tombs,
he had no affection for anything he encountered, and found not a moment's ease in his dwelling.
The king, hearing that his son was displeased, urged him to go out to roam once more,
at once commanding the ministers to make decorations far surpassing the previous ones.
The deva transformed again into a sick man, clinging to life by the roadside,
his body emaciated and his belly swollen, panting with deep and heavy gasps,
his hands and feet cramped and withered dry, weeping piteously and groaning.
The prince asked the charioteer: "What kind of person is this again?"
He replied: "This is a sick person; his four great elements are completely disordered;
feeble and weak, incapable of anything, he relies on others even to turn over."
Hearing what was said, the prince at once conceived pity and compassion,
and asked: "Is this man alone diseased, or will others also be the same?"
He replied: "In this world, all are entirely the same:
where there is a body, there must be affliction; yet the foolish take joy in fleeting morning pleasures."
Hearing his words, the prince at once conceived great fear;
his body and mind trembled, like the moon upon rising waves.
"Dwelling in such a vessel of great suffering, how can one be at ease?
Alas, the people of the world, shrouded in foolish delusion and blind darkness,
know that the thief of disease arrives without fixed time, yet they give rise to joyful thoughts!"
Thereupon he turned the carriage back, grieving and sorrowing over the suffering of disease,
like a man who has been beaten and harmed, crouching his body waiting for the blows to come.
He rested quietly in the secluded palace, devoted to seeking the reversal of worldly pleasures.
When the king heard that his son had returned again, he ordered an inquiry into the reason.
The reply was that he had seen a sick man; the king was frightened as if beside himself.
He deeply reprimanded those who cleared the road, but with tied heart his mouth spoke no words.
He increased the multitude of singing-girls, with music doubling that of before,
to gladden his sight and hearing with these, so that he would take pleasure in worldly life and not grow weary of home.
Day and night sound and sensuality were presented, yet his heart never experienced joy.
The king himself went out to travel about, seeking still finer and more splendid parks;
he selected palace women of supreme beauty and charming countenance,
flattering, clever, and skilled in service, with alluring charms able to bewitch men.
He further repaired the royal highway, blocking and preventing all impurities,
and commanded the skilled charioteer to look carefully and choose the road to take.
Then that Śuddhāvāsa deva transformed again into a dead man;
four men carried the bier together, appearing before the Bodhisattva.
The other people were completely unaware; only the Bodhisattva and the charioteer saw it.
He asked: "What kind of bier is this, adorned with various banners and flowers,
while the followers are all sorrowful, with disheveled hair, wailing and weeping as they follow?"
The heavenly deity instructed the charioteer, who answered: "This is a dead man.
His faculties are ruined and life severed; mind scattered, thought and consciousness departed;
his spirit has gone and his form is dried up, stiff and straight like a withered log.
His kinsmen and all his friends, whose loving affection was once entwined,
now take no pleasure in seeing him, and cast him far away among the empty tombs."
Hearing the word "death," the prince's heart was knotted with sorrow and grief.
He asked: "Is this man alone dead, or is all under heaven also the same?"
He replied: "It is universally so for all; whatever has a beginning must have an end.
The old, the young, and the middle-aged—none who have a body escape destruction."
The prince was startled and dismayed; leaning forward against the carriage rail,
with breath nearly failing, he sighed: "How mistaken are the people of the world!
Openly seeing the body worn away and destroyed, they still give rise to heedlessness.
If their minds are not dry wood or stone, how can they never reflect upon impermanence?"
He immediately ordered the carriage to turn back: "This is no longer a time for diversion and play;
with life severed and death coming without warning, how can I give rein to my heart to roam?"
The charioteer, obedient to the king's command, was terrified and dared not turn back;
straightening the reins, he drove swiftly on, going directly to that park.
The groves and streams were abundant and pure; fine trees were all in full bloom;
sacred birds and rare beasts flew and ran, joyfully calling in harmony;
the radiance pleased both ears and eyes, just like the Nandana grove in heaven.
1.9
Buddhacarita, Chapter 4: Leaving Desires
1.10
The prince entered the grove, and the women came to welcome him, / all thinking it a rare encounter, vying to charm him and offer their hidden devotion. / Each exhausted her arts and postures, attending upon him as seemed fitting: / some held his hands or feet; some stroked his body all over; / some spoke and laughed before him; some showed sorrowful faces, / seeking thereby to please the prince and make him feel desire and joy. / When the women saw the prince, his radiant face was like a celestial body; / he had no need of fine ornaments—his natural form surpassed all adornment. / All gazed up at him, thinking the god of the moon had come. / Though they devised various means, they could not stir the Bodhisattva's mind; / they looked at one another in turn, filled with shame and silent. / There was a brāhmaṇa's son named Udāyin, / who spoke to the court maidens: "You are all shapely and fair, / clever and skilled in many arts, and your beauty and vigor are no common thing. / Moreover, you understand the world's secret ways of yielding to desire; / your beauty is rare in the world, your appearance like that of royal maidens. / Seeing it, gods would forsake their queens, and divine seers would be swayed by it. / How could a king's son fail to be moved in heart? / Although this prince now holds his mind firm, / and his pure virtue is fully complete, he cannot overcome the power of women. / Long ago, Sundarī was able to ruin a great seer, / making him indulge in love and desire, and tread upon his head with her foot. / Long-practicing ascetic Gautama was also undone by a celestial queen; / the seer's son, Ṛṣyaśṛṅga, practiced desire and drifted with its current. / The divine seer Viśvāmitra practiced the way for ten thousand years, / yet deeply attached to a celestial queen, was ruined in a single day. / If such beautiful women surpass the power of all holy life, / how could your arts fail to move the prince? / You must employ further diligent expedients, and not let the royal lineage be broken! / Though a woman's nature may be low, her honors depend upon the supreme god. / Why do you not exhaust your arts to make him give rise to passion?" / At that time, the troop of court maidens rejoiced to hear what Udāyin said; / their eager delight increased, like a fine horse under the whip. / Going before the prince, they each offered various arts: / singing, dancing, speaking, or laughing; raising brows and baring white teeth; / glancing with lovely eyes; showing their bare bodies through light garments. / Swaying alluringly with slow steps, feigning closeness and gradually drawing near, / desire was indeed in their hearts, and they also obeyed the great king's command; / shamelessly revealing their private charms, they forgot all sense of modesty. / The prince's mind was steadfast; lofty and proud, he did not change his countenance. / Just as a great nāga-elephant, surrounded by a herd of elephants, / cannot have his mind perturbed, remaining amidst the crowd as if in solitude; / or just as Śakra Devendra is surrounded by heavenly maidens— / so was the prince surrounded in the grove. / Some straightened his clothes; some washed his hands and feet; / some anointed his body with perfume; some adorned him with flowers. / Some strung necklaces of jewels; some embraced his body; / some arranged his cushions and mat; some bent close to whisper softly. / Some indulged in worldly play; some spoke of matters of varied desire; / some made forms of various lusts, planning thereby to move his mind. / The Bodhisattva's mind was pure, steadfast and hard to turn; / hearing what the court maidens said, he felt neither sorrow nor joy. / His thoughts of disgust redoubled, and he marveled at this as strange: / "Now I know that in women, the mind of desire is strong like this! / They do not know that youthful beauty is destroyed in an instant by old age and death. / Alas, this great delusion—folly covers their minds! / They should ponder old age, sickness, and death, striving diligently day and night; / with a sword's edge at their necks, how can they still play and laugh? / Seeing the old age, sickness, and death of others, they fail to examine themselves; / such are like men of clay or wood—what thought could they possess? / Like two trees in an open wilderness, both lush with flowers and leaves: / one is already felled, yet the second knows no fear. / These people without a mind are also just like that." / At that time, Udāyin came to where the prince was; / seeing him tranquil in silent dhyāna-reflection, his mind free of the five desires, / he spoke to the prince: "The great king previously commanded me / to be a good friend to his son; I must now offer sincere words. / There are three kinds of friends: those who can remove what is unwholesome, / those who bring about what is beneficial, and those who do not abandon you in hardship. / Since I am called a good friend, if I abandon a man's duty / and fail to speak fully what is in my heart, how could I be said to have the three benefits? / Therefore, I now speak true words to express my sincere devotion: / You are in the prime of your years, and your countenance and virtue are fully complete; / not to value women is not the nature of an exalted man. / Even if you have no true heart [for it], it is fitting to accept them by expedient means; / you should give rise to a soft, compliant mind, yielding to win their favor. / Nothing fosters arrogance in passion more than women; / and now, though your mind turns away, the proper way is to yield by expedients. / Yielding to a woman's heart brings pleasure; compliance is an ornament. / If a man lacks compliance, he is like a tree without flowers or fruit. / Why should one yield? Because of accepting their affection. / Having obtained an object rare to attain, do not give rise to light thoughts about it. / Desire is foremost—even the gods cannot forget it; / Śakra himself had secret commerce with the wife of the seer Gautama. / The seer Agastya practiced austerities through the long night; / because he sought a celestial queen, his wish was not fulfilled. / The seer Bharadvāja and the god of the moon, / the seer Parāśara and Kapiñjala— / many such as these were all ruined by women; / how much more in your own realm should you not take delight? / Having planted roots of virtue in past lives, you have obtained these fine requisites; / all the world clings joyfully to them, yet your heart, on the contrary, does not cherish them?" / At that time, the prince, hearing his friend Udāyin's / sweet words and sharp eloquence skillfully expounding the worldly aspects, / replied to Udāyin: "I am moved by your sincere words; / I shall now tell you—listen with your mind attentive. / I do not despise fine sense-objects, and I know worldly pleasures; / but seeing the mark of impermanence, I give rise to a mind of weary distress. / If this state could endure forever, free from the suffering of old age, sickness, and death, / I too would accept pleasure and never have a mind of turning away. / If women's beauty could be made never to decay to the very end, / though passion is a fault, it might still hold human feelings. / When men have old age, sickness, and death, they themselves should take no joy; / how much less should they give rise to passionate attachment toward others? / The objects of the five desires are impermanent, and one's own body is the same; / to give rise to love and joy in them is to be no different from beasts. / As for those seers you cited who indulged in the five desires, / they are indeed to be deplored; because they indulged in desire, they perished. / Moreover, you call those exalted men who rejoiced in the realm of the five desires; / they too met with destruction; know, therefore, that they were not exalted. / If you say one should yield and draw near to them through expedients, / then drawing near is true defilement—how can it be called an expedient? / To yield through false deceit is something I will not do; / and to yield in reality is unrighteous. / This mind is hard to restrain; it forms attachment as soon as it meets an object. / When attached, it sees no fault—how could one yield by expedients? / To comply outwardly while the mind turns away—such a principle I cannot see. / Such a heap of great suffering as old age, sickness, and death— / to cause me to fall into it is not the talk of a wise friend. / Alas, Udāyin, you are bold indeed! / The perils of birth, old age, sickness, and death—this suffering is exceedingly fearsome; / seeing all decay with your own eyes, you still joyfully pursue them. / Now I am utterly weak, and my heart is narrow: / reflecting that old age, sickness, and death will arrive suddenly and without notice, / day and night I forget sleep; how could I indulge in the five desires? / Old age, sickness, and death blaze fiercely, certain to come without doubt; / yet to know no sorrow is truly to have a heart of wood and stone." / For Udāyin's sake, the prince, using various skillful expedients, / spoke of desires as deep perils, unaware that evening had arrived. / Then the troop of court maidens, their music and ornaments / all proving useless, returned into the city in shame. / When the prince saw the grove's adornments entirely ceased, / the singing girls all gone home, and the place completely empty and quiet, / his thought of impermanence redoubled, and bowing his head, he returned to his palace. / When the king heard that the prince's mind was cut off from the five desires, / he felt immense grief and distress, as if a sharp thorn pierced his heart. / He immediately summoned his ministers, asking what means they should devise; / all said that the five desires were not what could detain his mind.
1.11
Buddhacarita: Leaving the City, Chapter 5
1.12
The king further increased all kinds
of exquisite implements of the five desires,
entertaining him day and night,
hoping to gladden the prince's heart.
The prince felt deep revulsion,
completely without passion or pleasure,
thinking only of the suffering of birth and death,
like a lion struck by an arrow.
The king sent the great ministers
and the renowned sons of noble clans,
of youthful, fine appearance,
clever, wise, and versed in etiquette,
to sport and stay together day and night
in order to win the prince's heart.
Before long, like this,
he petitioned the king to go out touring again.
Mounted on a swift-footed steed
adorned with all kinds of jewels,
he rode out of the city
surrounded by the noble youths.
Just as the four kinds of flowers
all open beneath the shining sun,
the prince's divine radiance shone forth,
and his attendants were all bathed in his light.
Leaving the city to tour the gardens,
the long road was broad and level;
the trees were lush with blossoms and fruit;
his heart delighted, and he forgot about returning.
By the road he saw a plowman
turning the soil and killing all the insects;
in his heart there arose grief and sorrow,
his pain exceeding a thorn piercing the heart.
Again he saw that farmer,
toiling bitterly, his body emaciated,
his hair unkempt and flowing with sweat,
his body covered with dust.
The plow ox was also exhausted,
sticking out its tongue and panting rapidly;
the prince was compassionate by nature
and felt the utmost pity.
Sighing deeply with long laments,
he dismounted and sat on the ground,
observing these many sufferings
and contemplating the phenomena of arising and ceasing:
"Alas, all in the world
are foolish and unable to realize this!"
Comforting the multitudes,
he made them each sit where they were;
he himself sat in the shade of a jambu tree,
sitting upright in proper contemplation,
observing all births and deaths,
the impermanent changes of arising and ceasing.
His mind became settled, tranquil, and unmoving;
the five desires vanished like clearing clouds;
with initial thought and discursive thought,
he entered the first untainted dhyāna.
Separated from desire, joy and bliss arose;
he entered into samādhi:
"The world is exceedingly bitter and painful,
destroyed by old age, sickness, and death.
Throughout life they suffer great pain,
yet are unaware of it themselves;
they abhor others' old age, sickness, and death,
yet this [abhorrence] is a great delusion.
Now seeking the supreme Dharma,
I should not be like the worldly;
inflicted myself with old age, sickness, and death,
yet instead despising others!"
Contemplating reality like this,
[he saw that] youth, complexion, strength, and life
renew from moment to moment without ceasing,
and in the end return to the law of destruction.
Neither joyful nor sorrowful,
neither doubting nor confused,
neither sleeping nor clinging to desire,
neither ruined nor resenting them,
serene and free from all hindrances,
the light of wisdom grew ever brighter.
At that time, a Śuddhāvāsa god
transformed himself into the form of a monk,
and came to the prince's dwelling;
the prince respectfully stood up to greet him,
and asked him: "Who are you?"
He answered: "I am a śramaṇa.
Fearing and abhorring old age, sickness, and death,
I have gone forth to seek liberation;
the old age, sickness, and death of sentient beings
change and decay without a moment's pause.
Therefore I seek eternal bliss,
without ceasing and without arising,
with an equanimous mind toward enemies and kin,
not pursuing wealth or sensual pleasure.
My comfort is only in mountain forests,
empty and quiet, without worldly pursuits;
worldly thoughts having ceased,
lonely and aloof, I rely on quiet seclusion,
making no choice between fine and coarse,
begging [for food] only to sustain the body."
Then right before the prince,
he lifted up lightly and flew into the sky.
The prince was delighted in his heart
and remembered the Buddhas of the past,
who established this comportment,
whose remaining image he now witnessed.
Sitting upright in proper contemplation,
he then attained mindfulness of the saddharma:
"What expedient means should I use
to fulfill my heart's wish and go forth forever?"
Subduing his emotions and restraining his sense faculties,
he slowly arose and returned into the city;
his retinue all followed behind,
thinking he had stopped and would not go far away.
Inwardly he secretly gave rise to pity,
intending to transcend the bounds of the world;
though his form followed the road back,
his heart truly remained in the mountain forests,
like a tied-up rutting elephant
constantly thinking of roaming the wilderness.
When the prince entered the city,
men and women lined the road to greet him;
the old wished he were their son,
the young wished he were their husband,
or wished he were their brother
or a close kinsman within the family.
If these wishes were fulfilled,
hopes for the cessation of accumulating [suffering] would end;
the prince was delighted in heart
upon suddenly hearing the words of ending accumulation:
"If these wishes are fulfilled,
these desires must surely be accomplished;"
he deeply contemplated the bliss of ending accumulation
and grew the desire for nirvāṇa.
His body was like a peak of a golden mountain,
his thick arms like an elephant's trunk,
his voice like spring thunder,
his deep-blue eyes like an ox king's,
with the imperishable Dharma as his heart,
his face like the light of the full moon;
with the pacing strides of a lion king,
he slowly entered his own palace.
Like the son of Śakra Devendra,
his mind respectful and his body reverent,
he went to his father the king's presence,
bowed down, and inquired of his peace,
and revealed his fear of birth and death,
pitifully begging to leave the household life:
"All assemblies in the world
must inevitably end in separation.
Therefore I wish to go forth from the household life,
desiring to seek true liberation."
The father king, hearing of his leaving home,
trembled greatly in his heart,
just like a great wild elephant
shaking a small tree branch.
Stepping forward, he took the prince's hand,
and weeping tears, he said:
"Stop this talk for now;
this is not the time to follow the Dharma.
In youth the mind is unstable;
practicing the Dharma brings many faults.
The realm of the wondrous five desires
your mind has not yet turned away from in revulsion;
going forth to practice tapas,
your mind cannot yet be resolute.
In empty, quiet wildernesses,
your mind is not yet extinguished in peace;
though your mind delights in the Dharma,
your time is not yet like mine.
You should take charge of the realm's affairs,
and let me go forth first;
to abandon your father and cut off ancestral lineage
is contrary to Dharma.
You should halt your intention to leave home,
take up and practice worldly ways,
[attain] ease, joy, and good renown,
and only then may you go forth."
The prince, with respectful and yielding words,
again petitioned his father the king:
"If you can only guarantee me four things,
I shall halt my wish to leave home:
guarantee that my life will endure forever,
that I will be free of disease and not grow frail with age,
and that my provisions will never diminish,
then I will obey your command and halt my going forth."
The father king told the prince:
"Do not utter such words!
As for these four things,
who could guarantee they would not happen?
Your seeking these four wishes
is just to be laughed at by others.
Halt for now your thought of leaving home,
and enjoy the five desires."
The prince again addressed the king:
"Since the four wishes cannot be guaranteed,
you should permit your son to go forth;
may you not place obstacles in my way.
Your son is in a burning house;
how could you not allow him to escape?
Dissolution is the constant law of things;
who could fail to permit this quest?
If I must perish on my own,
it is better to depart through the Dharma;
if I do not depart through the Dharma,
when death arrives, who can avert it?"
The father king knew his son's mind
was resolute and could not be turned;
he had only to use all his strength to detain him,
so what need was there to speak further?
He further increased the singing maidens
and the wondrous delights of the five desires,
guarding him vigilantly day and night,
determined not to let him leave home.
The ministers in the state
came to the prince's presence,
and citing extensively the rites and moral codes,
exhorted him to obey the king's command.
The prince, seeing his father the king
shedding tears in grief and sorrow,
returned for the time being to his palace,
sitting upright in silent contemplation.
The palace maidens
surrounded and served him closely,
watching and awaiting his expression,
gazing at him without blinking,
like deer in an autumn forest
staring at the hunter.
The prince's dignified appearance
was like a mountain of pure gold;
the dancing girls all observed him,
listening for his commands and watching his face,
observing his mind with awe and fear,
just like those deer in the forest.
Gradually evening arrived;
the prince remained through the deep night,
his radiance shining brightly
like the sun illuminating Sumeru.
Sitting upon a seven-jeweled throne
perfumed with exquisite sandalwood,
surrounded by the crowd of maidens,
they played Gandharva music,
like the son of Vaiśravaṇa,
with all kinds of wonderful celestial music.
What the prince's mind contemplated
was the supreme bliss of detachment;
though they played all kinds of wonderful sounds,
it was not in his heart.
Then the son of the Śuddhāvāsa gods,
knowing that the prince's time had arrived
and that he must certainly go forth,
suddenly transformed and came down,
causing revulsion in the troupe of dancing girls
and making them all fall asleep.
Their posture and decorum were unrestrained,
lying slumped and revealing ugly forms,
in deep sleep tossing and turning,
the musical instruments scattered in disarray.
Some leaned sideways or tossed about,
some looked as if cast into the depths,
their pearl necklaces like dragging chains,
their garments binding their bodies.
Some clasped the zither and fell to the ground,
just like a suffering person;
yellow and green clothes lay strewn about,
like broken karṇikāra blossoms.
Some slouched against the wall asleep,
looking like a suspended horn bow;
some grasped the window with their hands,
just like a strangled corpse.
Yawning and gaping widely,
screaming in nightmares, with mucus and drool flowing,
with tangled hair and exposed ugliness,
they looked like madmen.
Flower garlands covered their faces,
or they pressed their faces to the ground;
some trembled all over,
just like a wagtail.
Slumped down, pillowing one another,
hands and feet tangled together;
some frowned with knitted brows,
some had eyes closed and mouths agape,
their bodies scattered in various ways,
in disarray like corpses strewn about.
Then the prince sat upright
and observed the singing maidens:
"Previously they were all exceedingly dignified and fair,
their speech and smiles seductive and clever,
alluring and graceful in posture,
yet now they are all foul and ugly!
Such is the nature of women;
how could one draw near to them?
Bathing and relying on adornments,
they deceive and delude the minds of men.
Now I have awakened to this;
I shall certainly depart without doubt."
First 12 of 79 passages. Read on