好了歌(All Good Things Must End)
好了歌
（All Good Things Must End, a song from A Dream Of Red Mansions)
The translators of A Dream Of Red Mansions is 杨宪益 (Yang Xianyi) and his English wife Gladys Yang.
跛足道人《好了歌》
世人都晓神仙好，只有功名忘不了！
古今将相在何方？荒冢一堆草没了！
世人都晓神仙好，只有金银忘不了！
终朝只恨聚无多，及到多时眼闭了！
世人都晓神仙好，只有姣妻忘不了！
君生日日说恩情，君死又随人去了！
世人都晓神仙好，只有儿孙忘不了！
痴心父母古来多，孝顺儿孙谁见了？
All men long to be immortals
Yet to riches and rank each aspires;
The great ones of old, where are they now?
Their graves are a mass of briars.
All men long to be immortals
Yet silver and gold they prize;
And grub for money all their lives
Till death seals up their eyes.
All men long to be immortals
Yet dote on the wives they've wed,
Who swear to love their husband evermore
But remarry as soon as he's dead.
All men long to be immortals
Yet with getting sons won't have done.
Although fond parents are legion,
Who ever saw a really filial son?
甄士隐《好了歌》
陋室空堂，当年笏满床！
衰草枯杨，曾为歌舞场。
蛛丝儿结满雕梁，绿纱今又糊在篷窗上。
说什么脂正浓，粉正香，
如何两鬓又成霜？
昨日黄土陇头埋白骨，
今宵红绡帐底卧鸳鸯。
金满箱，银满箱，转眼乞丐人皆谤。
正叹他人命不长，那知自己归来丧？
训有方，保不定日后作强梁；
择膏粱，谁承望流落在烟花巷！
因嫌纱帽小，致使锁枷扛；
昨怜破袄寒，今嫌紫蟒长。
乱哄哄你方唱罢我登场，
反认他乡是故乡。
甚荒唐，到头来都是为他人作嫁衣裳！
Mean huts and empty halls
Where emblems of nobility once hung;
Dead weeds and withered trees,
Where men have once danced and sung.
Carved beams are swathed in cobwebs
But briar-choked casements screened again with gauze;
While yet the rouge is fresh, the powder fragrant,
The hair at the temples turns hoary -- for what casue?
Yesterday, yellow clay received white bones;
Today, red lanterns light the love-birds' nest;
While men with gold and silver by the chest
Turn beggars, scorned by all the dispossessed.
A life cut short one moment makse one sight,
Who would have known it's her turn next to die?
No matter with what pains he schools his sons.
Who knows if they will turn to brigandry?
A pampered girl brought up in luxury
May slip into a quarter of ill fame;
Resentment at a low official rank
May lead to fetters and a felon's shame.
In ragged cost one shivered yesterday,
Today a purple robe he frowns upon;
All's strife and tumult on the stage,
As one man ends his song the next comes on.
To take strange parts as home
Is folly past compare;
And all our labour in the end
Is making clothes for someone else to wear.