Down south there lives a pretty woman,
fair of face as pear or plum flowers.
Mornings find her roaming north of the river,
evenings she rests on an isle in the stream.
It is the time’s custom to scorn her beauty,
for whom shall she open her jade-white teeth and sing?
A nod of the head and she grows as old as evening,
O hard, for beauty and glory to last.