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Volume 19: Book of Wei 19 - Biographies of the princes of Rencheng, Chen, and Xiao

Chapter 19 of 三國志 · Records of the Three Kingdoms
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Chapter 19
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1
Cao Zhang, Prince of Rencheng; Cao Zhi, Prince of Chensi; and Cao Xiong, Prince of Xiaohuai.
2
Cao Zhang, Prince of Rencheng.
3
使
Cao Zhang, posthumously known as Prince Wei of Rencheng, bore the courtesy name Ziwen. From boyhood he excelled at archery and horsemanship, possessed uncanny strength, wrestled dangerous beasts bare-handed, and never shrank from rough ground. He rode again and again on campaign, fired by an ardent, martial spirit. Cao Cao once tried to check him: "You give no thought to study or the path of the sages, yet you love galloping horses and crossing swords. Any brawler can do that—why should it be prized?" Cao Cao set him lessons in the Odes and Documents, but Zhang told his attendants, "A man worth the name should ride at the head of a hundred thousand like Wei Qing or Huo Qubing—sweep the deserts, scatter the barbarians, and win a general's fame. What would I do with a scholar's cap?" Once Cao Cao asked each of his sons what he enjoyed and had them speak his mind. Zhang replied: "I want to command armies." What does a general do? asked Cao Cao. Clad in armor, spear in hand, he answered, I would meet peril head-on and lead from the front, "with rewards kept when promised and punishments given without fail." Cao Cao roared with laughter. In 216 he was made Marquis of Yanling.
4
涿 退 西 使 使 西
In 218 the Wuhuan of Dai rose; Cao Zhang was appointed General of the Household for the North and acting General of Swift Cavalry to deal with them. On the eve of his departure Cao Cao warned him: "Under this roof we are father and son; on duty we are sovereign and subject. Act only as the law allows—remember that." Zhang marched north into Zhuo, where several thousand rebel horsemen fell on him without warning. His main force had not yet come up; he had only a thousand foot soldiers and a few hundred horses. Following Tian Yu's advice, he held the key passes until the enemy broke and withdrew. Zhang gave chase, fighting in the thick of it himself; his bowstring sang and Hu horsemen tumbled from their saddles in an unbroken line. After half a day of fighting, his armor studded with arrows, he only fought harder; he pressed the rout all the way to the Sanggan River, 〈Pei Songzhi remarks that Sanggan County lay in Dai; northern peoples now hold the place and call it the "Suogan" capital.〉 more than two hundred li beyond the seat of Dai. His chief of staff and commanders argued that the army was worn from a long march, bound by orders not to cross beyond Dai, and that to push farther would mean disobeying orders and underestimating the foe. Zhang retorted: "An army on the march goes where victory lies—what do written orders matter?" The Hu are still within reach; a hard pursuit will shatter them. To obey a slip of paper and let the enemy escape is no way for a real commander. He swung into the saddle and told the ranks: "The last man out of the fight dies." In a day and a night he overtook them, smashed their host, and counted beheads and prisoners by the thousand. He doubled the usual bounty for the troops, and every man in the ranks went home delighted. Kebineng, chief of the Xianbei, had brought tens of thousands of horsemen to watch how the fight went; when he saw Zhang tear through every line before him, he offered his surrender. The northern frontier was quiet at last. Cao Cao was then at Chang'an and ordered Zhang to report to court. Passing through Ye from Dai, the heir Cao Pi told him: "You have fresh laurels; when you see our father in the west, do not preen. Speak as though your deeds were never enough." Zhang did exactly that: before Cao Cao he laid the credit at his generals' feet. Delighted, Cao Cao tugged at his whiskers and cried, "My yellow-bearded son—you are a wonder!" 〈The Weilüe records that while Cao Cao was in Hanzhong, Liu Bei camped on a height and sent Liu Feng down to taunt him. Cao Cao swore: "You sandal-seller's whelp—do you mean to fend off your elder with a borrowed son?" Wait till I fetch my yellow-beard and set him on you. He then sent for Cao Zhang. Zhang raced night and day to Chang'an, but Cao Cao had already quit Hanzhong and was on his way home. Zhang's beard was yellow, which earned him the nickname.〉
5
使 忿
When Cao Cao marched east again, he named Zhang acting General Who Crosses the River on Horseback and left him to hold Chang'an. Taken ill at Luoyang, Cao Cao urgently summoned Zhang; before Zhang could arrive, he died. 〈The Weilüe says that when Zhang reached Luoyang he told Cao Zhi, Marquis of Linzi: "Father called for me because he meant to make you heir." Zhi answered: "That must not be." Have you forgotten what became of the Yuan brothers? When Cao Pi took the title of King of Wei, Zhang and the other enfeoffed princes went out to their fiefs. 〈The Weilüe says that once the heir had succeeded and the late king was buried, he sent Zhang off to his fief. Zhang had hoped his father's trust and battlefield record would win him a post at court; learning he was to be packed off like any other prince, he left in a sulk before the formal order came. Because his Yanling fief was poor soil, he was reassigned to govern from Zhongmou. When Cao Pi took the throne, Zhang was raised to King of Zhongmou. Thereafter, whenever the court moved to Xuchang, the northern princes high and low went in awe of Zhang's iron discipline; and none dared loiter when his route took him past Zhongmou.〉 An edict declared: "The kings of old rewarded service and cherished kinsmen, enfeoffed younger brothers of the queen, and let them found houses of their own—so the royal line gained bulwarks against peril." Zhang, ordered north, pacified the frontier; his service was outstanding. His appanage is increased by five thousand households, for a total of ten thousand. In 221 his rank was raised to duke. In 222 he was invested as King of Rencheng. In 223 he came to court for an audience, fell ill in his residence, and died; he was posthumously titled Wei, "the Formidable." 〈The Wei Annals of Spring and Autumn claim that Zhang asked after the imperial seal with designs of his own, and for that reason was kept waiting when he presented himself at court. He died suddenly, still in a rage.〉 For his funeral he received the bell-adorned hearse, dragon banners, and a hundred household guards, by the same honor once paid the Han Prince of Dongping. His son Cao Kai inherited the title and was moved to the Zhongmou fief. In 224 the fief was redesignated as Rencheng County. In 232 he was re-established as Prince of the state of Rencheng, with income from five counties totaling twenty-five hundred households. In 235 Cao Kai lost two thousand households of his fief for secretly sending his staff to the imperial workshops to commission forbidden goods. In 246 he was transferred to Jinan with a fief of three thousand households. Under Cao Mao and Cao Huan his appanage was enlarged in steps until it stood at forty-four hundred households. 〈Cao Kai served as Junior Chamberlain for Exalting Transformation at the start of the Jin dynasty; see the official lists.〉
6
Cao Zhi, Prince of Chensi.
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使 西 輿
Cao Zhi, posthumously honored as Prince Si of Chen, bore the courtesy name Zijian. Before he was eleven he had memorized the Odes, the Analects, and hundreds of thousands of characters of verse and rhapsody, and he wrote with uncommon ease. Cao Cao once looked over his compositions and asked, "Did someone else write this for you?" Zhi knelt and answered: "I speak in finished argument and write in finished periods; put me to the test in your presence—why would I need a ghostwriter?" Just then the new Bronze Bird Terrace at Ye was finished; Cao Cao took every son up the stairs and set each to compose a rhapsody on the spot. Zhi seized a brush and finished at once; the piece was striking, and Cao Cao was deeply impressed. 〈Yin Dan's Wei Records preserves Zhi's rhapsody: "I follow my enlightened lord in sport and climb tiered towers to lift the heart." I gaze on the great halls thrown wide and on the works that sacred virtue has raised. Lofty gates rear skyward; paired watchtowers ride the azure void. A splendid belvedere crowns mid-heaven; flying galleries span toward the city's west. Below lies the long roll of the Zhang; before me the orchards swell with fruit. The spring wind breathes soft above; a hundred birds weave their plaintive song. Heaven's clouds stand like a wall; the house of Cao may now fulfill its long desire. Human kindness spreads through the realm; all the capital bends in reverent awe. Huan and Wen were hailed as great—yet what are they beside our sage lord's light! Grace upon grace, beauty upon beauty! His kindly favor reaches to the horizon. He props our royal house on pinions and stills the four quarters of the world. His measure matches heaven and earth; his splendor vies with sun and moon. May he be honored without end and share the years of the King of the East, and more in that vein. Cao Cao was struck with wonder.〉 He was plain and unaffected by temperament and never put on lordly airs. His carriages, mounts, and dress favored modesty over display. At each audience Cao Cao pressed him with hard questions, and he answered on the instant—hence he stood highest in his father's favor.
8
使
In 211 he became Marquis of Pingyuan. In 214 his title was moved to Marquis of Linzi. When Cao Cao marched against Sun Quan, he left Zhi to hold Ye and told him: At twenty-three I was magistrate of Dunqiu. Looking back on how I carried myself then, I have nothing I would undo. You are the same age now—see that you do not fall short! Zhi’s gifts had already marked him out, and Ding Yi, Ding Yì, Yang Xiu, and others gathered round him as his partisans. Cao Cao hesitated so often that Zhi nearly became heir more than once. Yet Zhi followed his whims, refused to school himself, and drank without limit. Cao Pi played the game with cold skill—masked his heart, trimmed his conduct, and won every voice in the harem to his side—until the succession was his.
9
便 使 簿
In 217 his income was raised by five thousand households, for the same ten thousand in all as before. Once Zhi drove his carriage down the forbidden carriage track and had the Sima Gate opened for his exit. Cao Cao’s fury fell on the official who held the Sima Gate; the man was condemned to death. The rules binding the princes were tightened after that, and Zhi’s star sank day by day. The Record of Wei Wu’s Administrative Acts quotes an edict: “I once thought Zijian the son who could shoulder the weightiest charge.” Another reads: “When the Marquis of Linzi slipped out on his own and forced the Sima Gate clear to the Golden Gate, I began to see that son in another light.” A third asks: “Do those stewards and household officers know whether, each time I leave the palace, they still do the bidding of their lords?” “Since Zijian broke the Sima Gate on his own, I no longer place faith in any of the enfeoffed princes.” “I dread that the moment I step out they will steal out again—so I march them with me when I ride.” You cannot forever force me (you) to name anyone my true confidant! Uneasy about what the end might bring, and knowing Yang Xiu for a clever schemer who was also tied by marriage to the Yuans, Cao Cao found a pretext and put him to death. Zhi grew more anxious by the day. The Brief Account of Current Affairs says Yang Xiu (Dezǔ) was the son of Grand Commandant Yang Biao. He combined humility with wide learning. During Jian’an he entered office as Filial and Incorrupt, rose to Gentleman of the Palace, and was assigned registrar under the Chancellor’s Granary Bureau. With army and court both in turmoil, Xiu ran civil and military paperwork to Cao Cao’s satisfaction. Everyone from the heir of Wei downward scrambled to win his friendship. The Marquis of Linzi, favored for his ready wit, warmed to Xiu and wrote him often; one letter began:
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使 使
A few days apart, and I am worn thin with longing; I imagine you feel the same. I have loved verse and rhapsody since I was a boy—twenty-five years now. The authors of our time can be summed up in a word or two. Wang Can strode unrivalled south of the Han; Chen Lin hunted like a hawk in Hebei; Xu Gan won his laurels in the eastern hills; Liu Zhen flashed his colors on the coast; Ying Yang made his start in Wei; and you, sir, looked down from the imperial city. Then every man swore he held the pearl of the magic snake; every house boasted the jade of Mount Jing. Our prince cast the net of heaven, drew in the eight directions, and now they are all assembled here in Wei. Even so, not one of them has quite cleared the traces of his brush or soared a thousand li at a single stroke. Chen Lin has no gift for fu, yet he keeps comparing himself to Sima Xiangru—like the painter who set out to draw a tiger and produced a cur instead. I mocked him in a letter; he answered with a long essay insisting I had praised his prose. Bo Ya’s ear for music is still remembered. I dare not hand out empty praise, lest later ages snicker at me. No book under heaven is free of fault. I have always welcomed criticism of my drafts; and when a line fails, I mend it at once. Once Ding Jingli asked me to touch up a short piece; I thought I could not outwrite the man and refused. Jingli said: “Why hesitate? The fine phrases are mine in any case. Who after we are gone will be the judge who “fixes” my lines?” I have treasured that wise remark as a model ever since. Confucius’s ordinary essays flowed with the speech of his day; but when he forged the Spring and Autumn Annals, not even Ziyou and Zixia could change one word. Claim flawless prose beyond that—I have never met the man. You must have Nanwei’s face before you lecture on beauty; you must wield the Longyuan blade before you discourse on the cleaving stroke. Liu Xiu is no writer, yet he delights in tearing apart other men’s lines and hunting for blemishes. Tian Ba once vilified the Five Thearchs, the Three Kings, and the Five Lords at Jixia and silenced a thousand hearers in a day—until Lu Zhonglian spoke once and he never opened his mouth again. Liu’s rhetoric falls short of Tian Ba’s; a modern Lu Lian would soon put him down—small wonder one groans at the sight. Tastes differ with every man. The world loves orchid and iris, yet some coast-dweller craves the smell of rot; the world thrills to Xianchi and Liuying, yet Mozi condemned them—how can all hearts agree! I enclose a packet of the verse I composed in my younger days. Market gossip holds grains of truth; songs banged out on a cart-shaft can match the Odes; a plain fellow’s notion is not to be despised. Fu is a side road—it cannot proclaim the great Way or instruct posterity. Yang Xiong was only a court guardsman, yet he said, “A full-grown man does not traffic in this”; I am a minor prince, yet I mean to serve the throne, bless my people, build a lasting work, and win fame on bronze and stone—not to make a career of ink alone or call myself a gentleman because I chant pretty lines. If I fail in that aim, I will still quarry the historians’ annals, weigh the age’s right and wrong, set the balance of humaneness and duty, and speak in my own voice—if not to hide the book on a sacred hill, then at least to share it with kindred spirits; that is work for a lifetime, not something to settle in a morning’s talk. I speak without blushing because I trust you to understand me as Huizi understood Zhuangzi. I shall expect you at dawn; ink cannot hold all I feel.
11
Yang Xiu answered:
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使 西 使
A few days’ silence feels like a year—is it only your kindness that binds my heart so fast! Your letter humbles me; its lines glow with color. Read and reread, it outshines even the Airs, the Elegantiae, and the Hymns. Wang Can’s mastery south of the Yangzi, the Chen name in Ji, Xu Gan and Liu Zhen’s reputations in Qing and Yu, Ying Yang’s rise in Wei—you have the right of it all. For my own part I catch only rumor and scarce lift my eyes to true greatness—how should I gape like one dazzled by a summit? You, sir, were born to rank and bred on the models of the Duke of Zhou and Dan, the Duke of Shao. Onlookers thought you would only broadcast virtue and magnify the dynasty; they did not expect you to devour histories and brood over style. Now you outrun the kings of verse and leave Chen Lin behind; spectators rub their eyes, hearers strain their ears; who could reach such heights without native penetration of the Way? I have watched you seize brush and tablet and write as though the text were already memorized—never a second’s hesitation. Confucius is sun and moon; none may eclipse him. So I look up to you. So I hid my face before the heron and, though I drafted a fu on the summer heat, would not show it for a day—like a man who hates his own looks after glimpsing Xishi. I fear you did not know my shame; you honored me with a command to polish your lines. Once the Spring and Autumn Annals stood complete, no hand could alter a word. The Lü’s Spring and Autumn and the Huainan—every word worth its weight in gold; yet their disciples dared not breathe a correction—so it is when a sage towers above the crowd. Modern fu descend from the old songs; without Confucius’s touch they are not true Airs and Odes. Your servant’s townsman Yang Xiong, foolish in old age, forced out one book and repented his early writings. If that were the rule, even the Duke of Zhou would stand condemned! You cite my humble lineage’s gossip and forget how the sages behaved—I think you have not weighed that. To mind the great work of state, ring your fame on the Jing bell, and carve your name in history—that is the purpose you have always cherished; it does not clash with letters. I accept your gift and can only mumble praise like a blind man singing. I would not slight Huizi and shame Zhuang Zhou. Liu Xiu is too small a man to name.
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In 219 Cao Ren was trapped by Guan Yu. Cao Cao named Zhi acting General Who Subdues Captives and General of the Household for the South, meant to send him to relieve Ren, and called him in for his orders. Zhi was too drunk to take the commission; Cao Cao repented of the plan and dropped it. 〈The Wei Annals of Spring and Autumn say the heir poured wine for Zhi and made him drunk before he rode out. When the king called for Zhi, he could not answer the summons—hence the king’s wrath.〉
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宿輿 便 使 姿
As soon as Cao Pi became King of Wei, he put Ding Yi, Ding Yì, and every male in their houses to death. 〈The Weilüe: Ding Yi (Zhengli) came from Pei. His father Ding Chong had long been intimate with Cao Cao and sometimes rode in the imperial equipage. Seeing the realm still unsettled, he wrote: “You have always burned to set the world to rights; the moment is now.” Zhang Yang had just withdrawn to Henei; Cao Cao read the letter, marched to escort the emperor east to Xu, and made Ding Chong Colonel Director of Retainers. He kept joining the commanders for feasts, could not refuse the cup, and drank himself to death—his belly literally torn apart by wine. Cao Cao remembered how Ding Chong had first urged him to take the emperor in hand, and held him in lasting regard. Learning that Ding Yi was a man of parts, though they had never met, Cao Cao meant to give him a princess for wife and took the matter to the heir. Cao Pi answered: "Women judge by looks; Ding Yi’s eyes are weak—I doubt our sister would be happy with the match." He urged you to betroth her instead to Mao, son of the old Fubo general. Cao Cao took his advice. Soon Ding Yi was called in as an adviser; one conversation won Cao Cao over. "Ding Yi loves talent," he cried. "I would marry my daughter to him if he were wholly blind—what is a squint?" My son misled me on this. Ding Yi bitterly regretted missing the princess, but he clung to the Marquis of Linzi and never tired of praising Zhi’s genius. Cao Cao already leaned toward naming Zhi heir, and Ding Yi pushed the same way. Once Cao Pi was heir, he moved to ruin Ding Yi, shunted him into the post of right “thorn-investigator,” and hoped shame would drive him to suicide—but Ding Yi could not do it. He threw himself at Xiahou Shang’s feet and begged; Shang wept yet could not shield him. Soon a charge was fabricated, he was clapped in irons, and put to death. Ding Yì (courtesy Jingli) was Ding Yi’s younger brother. The Record of Men of Letters says Ding Yì was gifted in youth, read everything, and heard everything. He first entered Cao Cao’s bureau, then rose to Gentleman of the Yellow Gates under Jian’an. Once Ding Yì told Cao Cao plainly: "The Marquis of Linzi is humane and filial by nature, and his wit is almost that of a sage." His learning runs deep and his brush has no rival. Every able man in the land, young or old, would follow him to the death—surely Heaven heaps fortune on Wei by giving us such an heir. He meant to sway Cao Cao’s heart. Cao Cao replied: "I love Zhi—can he really be everything you claim?" I mean to name him successor—what say you? Yì answered: "The rise and fall of the state hang on this—not a topic for small men to meddle in." Yet the proverb runs: the ruler knows his ministers best, the father his sons best. How then does a lord read light and shadow, or a father judge worth and folly, yet always know his men? Because true knowledge is not won in a single glance nor sealed in a single hour. You are a sage yourself and have reared him as a son. A clear edict now, a pledge of peace forever—this answers Heaven and men alike and will echo for ages. I would face the headsman’s blade before I held back a word! Cao Cao took his counsel to heart.〉 Zhi went out to his fief with the other princes.
15
使
In 221 the court watcher Guan Jun, eager to please, reported that Zhi had insulted an imperial messenger while drunk. The ministry demanded his head; for his mother’s sake Cao Pi only stripped him to Marquis of Anxiang. 〈The Book of Wei quotes an edict: "Zhi is my own mother’s son." There is room in my heart for the world—shall there be none for Zhi? Blood binds us; I spare his life and change his fief instead. The same year he was made Marquis of Juancheng. In 222 he was raised to King of Juancheng with twenty-five hundred households.
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In 223 his seat was moved to Yongqiu. That year he came to court. He submitted a memorial that read:
17
西
Since I was sent back to my domain under a cloud, I have worn my guilt in my very bones—I rise at noon and retire at midnight, counting my faults. Heaven’s net does not part twice for the same man, nor does imperial mercy wait on a fool forever. The Ode of the Rat haunts me—without courtesy, better die at once—yet here stand body and shadow alone, and every passion burns with shame. Die for my crimes and I spurn the sage counsel to mend at dusk; cling to life and I earn the poet’s taunt—what cheek have you to show? Your virtue spans heaven and earth; your love outdoes a father’s; it blows like spring wind and falls like seasonable rain. To spare thorn and thistle alike is the favor of the lucky cloud; to nurse seven chicks as one is the kindness of the turtle-dove; to forget fault and weigh service is the way of a wise king; to pity the dull yet cherish talent is a tender father’s grace—so I hang between gratitude and despair and cannot cut myself loose. When your first order barred us from audience, I thought my heart dead and my court days over—never again to bear the jade baton. I never dreamed you would stoop to call me by name; the day I reached the capital my soul flew to your chariot wheels. They lodge me in the western guest hall; I have not yet seen the throne—yet my heart leaps and turns, all impatience. I therefore lay before you two poems, which begin:
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Splendid my late father—he was Emperor Wu.
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He took Heaven’s charge and stilled the four seas.
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His crimson flag swept wide; the nine domains bowed.
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His transforming power rolled outward; wild borderlands sent kings.
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He outshone Shang and Zhou; he walked in Yao’s stride.
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Then rose my lord—wise through the ages.
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Terrible in war, gentle in peace.
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He took the flame-red Han’s abdication and rules ten thousand lands.
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The myriad lands obey; the old statutes hold.
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He sent kinsmen wide to fence the throne.
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The Emperor said: "You, my prince—this green earth is yours."
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You hold the coast; your realm rivals Lu of old.
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Bright your chariots and robes; ordered your banners and blazons.
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Hosts of fine men are my props and stays.
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I, a foolish boy, leaned on favor and swelled proud.
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I tangled in the age’s net and snapped the kingdom’s cord.
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You made me a shield—I broke the ancient rule.
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使
I slighted your herald and mocked the court’s rite.
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The law has teeth—I was shorn and cast down.
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They would have bound me to justice—I was ringleader of the wrong.
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Heaven’s Son, clear of eye—holds his kindred dear.
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He would not shame me on the public block.
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He set the judge aside and pitied this small son.
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He moved my seat to Yan, beside the river’s brim.
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No helpers at my side—only a lord, no ministers.
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Lost in license and sloth, who would brace my frame?
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Lonely my groom and I—far off in Ji.
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Alas, this boy—such ruin fell on me.
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Bright Heaven’s Son—his grace spares nothing.
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He crowned me in black silk, tied the crimson cord.
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使
The crimson cord gleams wide—he gave me glory.
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He halved the tally, gave the jade—raised me to prince.
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I lift the golden seal; I bow and take the sacred writ.
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The favor is too high—I take it in fear.
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Woe, this stubborn child—evil clings like a swaddling band.
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Dead I shame the tombs; alive I shame your hall.
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I dare not scorn your virtue—I cling to mercy alone.
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Your aweful grace remade me—enough to hide my shame till the grave.
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Heaven’s height knows no bound—my life is not my own to chart.
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I dread a fall that drags my guilt down to the yellow springs.
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I would meet stone and shaft and plant your flag on Taishan’s height.
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Perhaps earn a hair’s weight of merit to buy off my fault.
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Give this frail life gladly—if guilt lifts, I am content.
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I would march to the Yangzi’s waves and strike for you in Wu and Yue.
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Heaven relented; I may see the capital again.
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Slowly I near your face—as parched men crave rain, as the starving crave bread.
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My heart is a cloud of longing—grief without end.
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High Heaven hears the humble—will you, my emperor, light even me?
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A second poem says:
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I bow to your clear command and hasten to the capital.
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Before dawn I harness, grain the horses, oil the axles.
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I order my stewards to set my escort in order.
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宿
We quit the tower at dawn and make orchid shoals by nightfall.
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Endless moors, crowds of travelers on every hand.
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We cross the public fields and feast our eyes on the crops.
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A stooping tree spreads shade where we cannot linger.
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Though we pack provisions, hunger will not let us pause to eat.
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We pass cities without stopping, skirt towns without tarrying.
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The driver lays on the whip; we hold to the straight highway.
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The jet team rolls on, bits high, froth flying.
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Wind fans the crossbar like wings; light clouds bear the carriage hood.
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We cross the ford and trace the mountain’s bend.
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We keep to the river road; the yellow ridge is our climb.
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西
West through the passes we climb and descend by turns.
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Trace-horses tire on the long road; we sleep, wake, and press on.
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I ride to my sovereign—I dare not seek comfort.
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I check the bit only to race on; each sun marks a day nearer you.
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Vanguard lights the signal fires; rearguard flies the great flags.
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The wheels never stop; the carriage bells never fall silent.
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西
At last I reach the palace and dismount at the western lodging.
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Your kind summons has not yet let me enter; I cannot yet bow in the hall.
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I lift my eyes to the gate towers; I bow my head and ache for the throne room.
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Endless longing racks me like a wine-sickness in the heart.
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In 225 the emperor marched east; on his return he stopped at Yongqiu, visited Zhi’s residence, and added five hundred households to his fief.
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In 227 he was moved to Junyi. In 228 he was sent back to Yongqiu. Zhi nursed a steady anger: he had a sword’s edge and no wall to try it on. He submitted a memorial asking for a chance to prove himself:
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祿 祿 退祿 西使 忿 退使 使 耀 宿 宿 使使西 使 祿 西 使 使 退
I have heard that a man born to this age serves his father at home and his prince abroad; the son’s duty is to bring glory to his kin; the minister’s duty is to exalt his sovereign’s house. So no loving father dotes on a worthless son, and no humane king feeds a useless officer. The king who matches rank to character finishes his great work; the servant who takes title only as his talent allows gives his life to the end. Thus no crown sits idle on a head, no stipend fills an empty hand; a hollow title is a false choice; pay for no work is “corpse on the payroll”—the shame the Odes call “eating free grain.” The two Guo brothers did not shun twin duties—their virtue ran deep. The Duke of Zhou and the Duke of Shao did not refuse Yan and Lu—their merit was vast. I have drunk deep of the dynasty’s kindness—three generations of my house. I live under your peace, washed in holy dew and steeped in your teaching—no man could be luckier. Yet I hold a princedom in the east, rank among the first, dress in silken furs, dine on every delicacy, feast my eyes on luxury, tire my ears with music—all because my title is high and my pay rich. Looking back, the men of old who took stipend earned it—by sweat they saved the state, steadied the throne, and fed the people. I have no tale of virtue, no scroll of deeds; if I rot here year on year, I earn the poet’s gibe at useless lords. So I blush for the black cap above me and the crimson cord at my waist. The empire is one and the nine regions calm—yet Shu in the west and Wu in the east still hold aloof, so our spears stay bright and our planners cannot sleep—because you mean to unite all under heaven in perfect peace. So Qi crushed Youhu and Xia’s glory blazed; King Cheng conquered Shang and the loyalist state of Yan and Zhou’s power was plain. You, sage king, mean to finish what Wen and Wu began, match Cheng and Kang, pick able men, and with Fangshu and Zhaohu’s like hold the frontiers as the kingdom’s claws—none could call that wrong. Yet the lofty bird is not snared nor the deep fish hooked—the hunter’s and angler’s craft may still need polish. Geng Yan would not wait for Guangwu but struck Zhang Bu at once, saying he would not leave the bandit for his sovereign and sire. So the chariot guard bared steel at a rattling wheel, and Yongmen Di cut his throat in Qi—did those men love death for its own sake? They could not bear insult to their king. 〈Liu Xiang’s Garden of Stories: when Yue’s army reached Qi, Yongmen Di asked leave to die for his state. The king said: No drum has sounded, no shaft has flown—why rush to die? Do you know what it is to serve a prince? Yongmen Di answered: “They say the king once hunted in the park; the left wheel-hub creaked; the chariot guard asked to die; the king asked, ‘Why die for that?’ The guard said, ‘Because it has dishonored you.’ The king said, ‘That squeak is the coachwright’s fault. What is that to you?” The guard replied, ‘I have not seen the workmen’s cart; I have seen my lord shamed.’ He cut his own throat and died. Did that truly happen? The king said, “It did.” Yongmen Di said: Yue’s host is here—it shames you worse than a wheel’s creak. The guard could die for a hub—may I not die for Yue? He cut his throat and fell dead. That day the Yue army withdrew seventy li, saying, “If Qi has men like Yongmen Di, our state may starve.” So they marched home. The king of Qi buried Yongmen Di with honors fit for a high minister.〉 A king cherishes good servants to scourge foes and build the realm; a minister’s trade is to hazard life, crush revolt, and pay his debt in deeds. Jia Yi at twenty asked for a border post and swore he would rope the Chanyu’s neck; Zhong Jun, barely grown, went south and vowed to lead the king of Yue bound to Chang’an. Those two were not bragging for fame. Their hearts were pent; they longed to lay their power before a wise throne. When Emperor Wu built Huo Qubing a palace, he answered: “While the Xiongnu live, I have no home.” 〈Some editions read gu “indeed” here.〉 To fret for the realm and forget hearth, to stake life on danger—that is a loyal heart. I live abroad in no small comfort—yet I cannot sleep or savor my meat, for Shu and Wu still stand. I note that Wu’s old captains are dying off with the years. Young men still come forward, and the ranks remember war; I dare not flatter myself, yet I would spend my life for a hair’s worth of merit to repay your kindness. If you would send a matchless call and use this poor blade—let me serve under the Grand General in the west with one column, or under the Grand Marshal in the east with a squadron—I would face every risk, drive the fleet, spur the horses, and lead the charge. I may not nail Sun Quan nor take Zhuge Liang’s head, yet I would crush their champions, scour their rabble, win one swift hour, and wash away my shame—so history records my name and the court files my deed. If my body falls in Shu and my head adorns a Wu gate-post, I would count myself alive. If you never test me and I die unheard, a fattened beast in a pen—useless alive, unmourned dead—then I am only fodder for the cage, not the servant you need. Word says the eastern host was caught unprepared and took a small wound—I dropped my bowl, seized my sword, and my soul was already racing toward Wu. I once rode with Emperor Wu south to Red Shore, east to the sea, west to Jade Gate, north through Dark Pass—I saw how he moved armies: it was sorcery. War admits no rehearsal; you remake the plan when steel meets steel. I mean to give myself to this age and carve one mark on your reign. Whenever I read how loyal men staked all for the state—torn limb from limb yet named on bronze and silk—I beat my breast and sigh. I have heard wise kings use even broken men. Routed generals found work again, and Qin and Lu reaped the gain; 〈Pei Songzhi: Qin’s use of fallen commanders is famous, so I skip it. Lu Lian wrote the Yan general: “Cao Mo led Lu’s army, lost three fights and five hundred li of ground; had he then killed himself for shame, he would still be remembered only as a beaten general.” Cao Mo swallowed the shame of three routs and went home to plan with his duke. When Duke Huan met the Son of Heaven and the lords, Cao Mo with a single blade bared Huan’s chest on the covenant mound—never blinking, never stumbling in speech. In one morning he won back all that three defeats had cost. The world shook; the lords gaped; his name rolled as far as Wu and Yue. Those men were not too small for scruple—they simply aimed higher.〉 Chu forgave the man who snatched his tassel; Zhao spared the groom who stole horses—both kingdoms were saved by mercy. 〈Pei Songzhi: Zhuang of Chu’s “snapped tassel” story is famous, so I omit it here. Duke Mu of Qin pardoned horse-thieves; I find no Zhao parallel. The text pairs “Chu and Zhao” because Qin was of Zhao lineage—scribal avoidance of repeating “Qin.”〉 The late emperor died young, my brother Cao Zhang gone too—what am I, that I should outlive them? I dread I will vanish like dew, fill an anonymous ditch, and leave no name while my tomb is still fresh. They say when a steed trumpets, Bole knows its worth; when the Lu hound bays, the Han hunter marks its skill. So men run them on Qi and Chu roads to prove the thousand-li stride; or set them after a swift hare to test their kill. I ask only the mean service of a dog or horse, yet I see no Bole coming—so I ache in silence. He who cranes at a fight or taps his foot to a tune may still be a true judge of art. Mao Sui was a menial, yet his “awl in the sack” speech won a kingdom—can Wei lack one man ready to die for you? Self-praise and self-sale shame any man or woman. To claw for office is what quietist teaching most condemns. I speak because I am bone of your bone—your peril is mine. Let my mite thicken your mountains; let my spark borrow from your sun—this is why I swallow pride and speak.
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祿 祿 使
〈The Weilüe says Zhi feared his words would lie unread, and wrote: Men who value life value not long years in silks, but doing Heaven’s work in the world. Rank and pay are not toys; they follow real merit—that is the rule. Fat office without deeds shames a grown man, though fools may preen. First plant virtue, then deeds—both are how a name outlives the flesh. The sage would die at dusk if his name were clear; Mencius would drop life for right. Would Confucius and Mencius have refused long life? Their hearts simply had nowhere to go. So I beg for a trial—for I mean to earn my keep. Ah—what grief! No one took my counsel; I leave these lines so later men will know my heart.〉
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In 229 he was moved to Dong’e. In 231 he wrote again, begging leave to visit family and saying:
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退使 鹿 使 使 使 調西使 使 使 使 便 使
Heaven is called high because it roofs all things; earth is called wide because it bears all things; sun and moon are called bright because they light all corners; the rivers and seas are called great because they hold all streams. Confucius said: How great was Yao! Heaven alone is great, and Yao patterned himself on it. Heaven’s kindness to creation is boundless. Yao taught: cherish kin before strangers, the near before the far. The canon says: “He spread his bright virtue to draw the nine clans near;" when the nine clans were at peace, he brought order to the hundred families. King Wen did the same; the Odes sing: “He taught wife and brothers, then ruled clan and kingdom." So harmony filled the hall. The poets praised it. When the Duke of Zhou grieved over Guan and Cai, he packed the realm with kin to fence the throne—the saying runs: “In Zhou’s league, outsiders stood last." Kin may wander but the tie holds; no loyal man forgets his prince, no humane man abandons family. You mirror Yao and Wen, bless harem and clan, let princes and ministers take turns at court yet still tend their homes—surely that is the way of mercy. Yet I alone am severed from kin, caged in this bright reign—I grieve for myself. I dare not dream of full friendship or ordered ritual among men. We cannot wed across houses, brothers never meet, no word of weal or woe passes—we are colder than strangers, farther apart than north from south. One law bars me from your face forever—yet my heart knots at the palace gate; the gods know it. Heaven has willed this—what can I say? I know my royal brothers ache as I do; send one generous edict so princes may visit at the seasons and feel human warmth again. Restore the easy love of kinsmen. Let wives’ kin exchange gifts twice a year, treat them like great houses, share bounty with officials—then the Odes’ praise of family love will live again in our day. I know I am not worth a knife-tip’s service. Yet those you raise from outside the blood—I do not think myself less than they. Let me shed my princedom, wear a soldier’s cap or clerk’s green, tend your chariot, keep house in Luoyang, take notes at your stirrup—this is the prayer I mutter in sleep. High I long for the “Deer Call” feast; mid I heed “Changdi’s” warning; low I recall “Felling Trees” friendship; always I mourn like “Thick Motherwort’s” child; each quarter-day I sit alone with servants and wives, no friend for high talk—so music wrings my heart and wine draws only sighs. A dog’s loyalty does not sway men; a gnat’s zeal does not move Heaven. I once believed tales of cities crumbling to grief and frost from wronged wives—against my own case, they ring hollow. Sunflowers turn to the sun though the sun does not turn to them—still they are true. I am that sunflower; if any grace falls, it falls from you alone. Wenzi said: “Do not court fortune, do not court ruin." Brothers all suffer this wall—yet I speak first, for I cannot bear that any soul miss your rain in a reign like yours. Neglect breeds poison—the Odes knew it in “Cypress Boat” and “Valley Wind.” Yi Yin blushed for any king less than Yao; Mencius said serving a prince without Shun’s zeal is disrespect. I am no sage, yet I beg you to shine like Yao and spread harmony—I stand like a crane on one leg, waiting. I speak again, praying you will listen once. The emperor answered: Ways of rule rise and fall—not every age turns sour; circumstance shapes them. When kindness ran deep even to reeds, poets sang “Walking Rushes”; when kin grew cold, they satirized it in “Horn Bow.” I have let brotherly love grow thin and neglected gifts between in-laws—you have argued from the Odes with full right; can you say the heart cannot reach? Clarifying rank, cherishing kin, honoring talent, and ordering age are the law’s spine—no edict ever meant to seal your doors; over-correction and timid clerks did that. I have told the ministries to grant what you ask. Zhi wrote again on choosing officials: Heaven and earth’s breath makes the world live; ruler and minister in tune make government work; the Five Thearchs’ court was not all sages, the last kings’ not all fools—it is use and insight that matter. When “raising worthies” is only a slogan, every man promotes his own pack. The proverb runs: “Prime ministers beget prime ministers, generals beget generals." A minister shines in civil virtue; a general blazes in martial deeds. Civil men set the court straight—think of Ji and Qi; martial men chastise rebels—think of Nanzhong and Fangshu. Yi Yin was a cook, Lü Wang a peddler—yet Tang and Wen raised them; heart met heart, no need of petty introductions. The classic says: A matchless king uses matchless servants; matchless servants win matchless deeds. So it was for Yin and Zhou. Small men hug routine—why waste your ear on them? When yin and yang clash, stars dim, posts stand empty, and policy drifts—the Three Dukes have failed. When frontiers boil, invaders cross, armies die, and war never ends—the field commanders have failed. How bear the state’s pay and not pay the debt? Higher rank means heavier blame—the Documents warn against empty chairs, the Odes tell officers to dread their charge. You are sage and true heir—you mean to hear “How vast,” to trade spears for laws. Yet flood and famine follow, the people hunger, levies mount, eastern hosts are routed, western generals die—and omens rise: shellfish on the Si, vermin in the wood. Each time I think of it I push my food away and grip my wrist over the wine. When Han Wendi came from Dai, Song Chang told him: “Inside you have stalwart kin; outside lie great fiefs—you are rock; do not fear." Look high to Wen’s use of Guo, think mid to Cheng’s use of Shao and Bi, remember low how Song Chang steadied the Han throne. A steed on Wu Slope was spent—yet Bole picked him, Sun You drove him, and he flew a thousand li untired. Bole mastered horses; the wise king masters men; Bole drew out a thousand li; the king draws out the Great Peace; proof that right men in right posts make the realm whole. Fit ministers, smooth government, able generals—and border troubles melt away. You could keep your majesty in Luoyang; why ride the war train to the marches? A sheep dressed as a tiger still loves grass and fears wolves—it forgets the disguise. Bad appointments of commanders are the same folly. The proverb runs: fools suffer what sages see—but cannot fix. Yue Yi fled to Zhao but his heart stayed in Yan; Lian Po, an exile in Chu, begged to lead Zhao’s spears again. I grew up under arms with Emperor Wu’s lessons—I know war’s heart without reciting Sunzi. I ask only one audience—to cross your threshold, speak my piece, and die content. The Herald’s levy order came with a cruel deadline. Word says your banner marches and you mean to take the field again—my heart fails me. I tremble and cannot sit still. Let me ride first, take your dust, use what I learned from Wu—die at the van if you will; even a little use would suffice. Yet you are far as heaven; my words never rise—I beat my breast at empty sky. Qu Yuan cried: "You keep a thoroughbred in the stable yet hunt for nags!" When Guan and Cai fell, Zhou and Shao still held the house; Shuyu went to the block; Shuxiang righted Jin. If the Three Overseers’ guilt returns, let it fall on me; helpers like the Odes’ southern masters—surely they stand near at hand. Among your kinsmen-princes someone can answer this call. The old text says: no Zhou kin, no Zhou-sized task. I beg you weigh these words. Han’s princes ran from vast domains to mere temple stipends—nothing like Zhou’s ordered ladder of lords. Fusu and Chunyu Yue read the turning tide—so should we. Power draws every eye; plots move kings, dread rules ministers. Great houses seize the wheel—not your blood kin; Power makes strangers heavy and kin light—the Tian stole Qi, not the Lü. Jin fell to Zhao and Wei, not to Zhou’s own line. Consider this, I pray. Outsiders ride your luck and quit your storm. Kin sink or swim with the throne—that is our kind. Today you favor strangers and chill your brothers—I cannot understand it. Mencius said: the noble man mends himself in poverty and blesses the world when risen. You and I have shared ice and fire, hill and flood—how should I part from you now? I choke on rage and set it down in this memorial. If it offends, shelve it, do not burn it—after my death it may be read. If a line rings false, publish it and let the learned correct me in daylight. That would fulfill my prayer.
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使 宿 使 使 宿 使使 使 使 退 祿
The emperor always replied with kind words. 〈The Weilüe: then came the great draft of princes’ household troops. Zhi wrote again: the ancient sage matched sun and moon in justice and the seasons in promise—punishment sure, reward swift—so every servant knew where to lay down his life. A man sent far trusts his orders; even slander cannot shake him—that is true faith between prince and servant. Formerly Tian Zhang served as Qi’s general; someone reported him rebellious; King Wei said, "It is not so." Those at his side said, "How does the king know?" He said: “Zhang would not cheat his dead mother’s grave— would he betray a living king?” That is a lord who trusts his man. Guan Zhong once shot Huan, then rode to Qi in Lu’s cage-cart, boys hauling the rope. Guan Zhong knew Duke Huan would surely use him, feared Lu would repent, and told the youths, "I will lead the song, you harmonize; when voice matches voice, you should run." They ran hundreds of li a day to his song and reached Qi overnight. He became Huan’s minister—faith cuts both ways. My patent read: “You take the green soil of the east to fence the royal house.” Yet I was given one hundred fifty troops, all past sixty, plus two hundred guards—every man gray. Even young men could not hold my walls; these ancients could not save themselves, let alone you. You call me the eastern shield—yet I blush at the jest. All princes together can muster fewer than five hundred fit men. The hosts do not need these few souls. If war calls, I will march my whole household at double time—wives, babes, grain sacks—not “schoolboys.” My tears cannot fill a river; my mice cannot drain the sea—this levy helps you not at all and ruins me. You have taken my men three times; the strong are gone. Only thirty-odd boys from eight to sixteen remain. Thirty-seven are bedridden, half blind, barely breathing; twenty-three are crippled, deaf, or blind. The older boys might guard my gate; they will not stop an army but may scare a thief; the younger can weed the garden and shoo birds. Lose one farmhand and a chore stalls; lose a hunt-day and a dozen trades scatter; I must do these tasks myself. Your edict thrice promised: boys pledged to the state would not be called again. That order shone like noon; I trusted it like iron, like oath before the gods. Now you take even my trainees—day turned to night; I am lost. You made me a prince, gave me ministers, called my house a palace—surely you did not mean to leave me as poor as any peasant. If I were Bo Cheng at the plow or Zizhong at the well— a wattle gate was good enough for Yuan Xian; a narrow lane enough for Yan Hui—I have no use for rank, yet I sigh toward such simplicity. Strip me of guards, seal, and stewards; let me live like Yan Hui in a lane— then failure in office would still leave me honor—I could die like an immortal hermit. Yet you will never free me—I stay tied to stipend and fret, never walking the void. If you will not loose my bonds, then honor your old mercy and spare my last boys. They sent the boys back.〉
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That winter he summoned all princes to Luoyang for New Year of 232.
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His son Cao Zhi inherited the title and was moved to Jibei. Under Jingchu an edict ran: “Cao Zhi sinned once, then mended his ways; brush never left his hand—a rare man.” He ordered every Huangchu charge-sheet against Zhi burned from the archives. Zhi’s hundred-odd works were copied into palace and public stores. Cao Zhi’s heir saw his appanage raised in steps to nine hundred ninety households in all. 〈Cao Zhi the son: courtesy Yungong, a learned and capable man. When Sima Yan met Cao Zhi at Ye they talked from dusk till dawn; he thought highly of him. At his accession he made Zhi Duke of Juancheng. He sent Zhi through Leping, Zhangwu, and Zhao to Palace Attendant, academy erudite, then chancellor of students. When Sima You was packed off to his fief, Zhi cried: “So much wit, so close a brother—yet you send him to the coast?” He drafted a blunt memorial against it. The emperor sacked him in a rage. Later he was again Palace Attendant. He mourned his mother to illness, lost his temper, and died in 288—posthumously Duke Ding.〉
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Cao Xiong, Prince Xiaohuai.
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Cao Xiong, Prince Xiaohuai, died in childhood. In 221 he was posthumously named Duke Xiaohuai of Xiao. In 229 his posthumous rank was raised to prince. In 234 his son Cao Bing inherited, with twenty-five hundred households. He died in 238 without heir; the fief was struck out.
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使
The historian’s verdict: Cao Zhang combined raw strength and martial dash—he was born to lead armies. Cao Zhi’s genius was lush enough to speak across the centuries, yet he could not yield nor look far ahead—and so he came to grief with his kin. The old gloss runs: Chu missed the mark— yet Qi hardly did better—surely that saying fits this case! 〈Yu Huan: “Poverty teaches thrift without lessons; low rank teaches deference without lessons”—not fate, but force of circumstance. That is how power shapes men—no empty word. Had Cao Cao curbed Zhi early, would loyal hearts ever have dreamed of the throne? Zhang’s bitterness never went that far. As for Zhi—could he ever have raised a revolt? Yet Yang Xiu died for taking Zhi’s part, Ding Yi’s whole house perished for flattery—how pitiful! Whenever I read Zhi’s verse, I feel something almost daemonic in it. Small wonder Cao Cao’s heart wavered when faced with such a gift.〉
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