O, fie! What then would they call us who love you?
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They make a long list of your misdeeds. Everybody knows how you love sweet things -- is that why they call you greedy?
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For every little trifle they blame you, my child. They are ready to find fault for nothing.
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O, fie! What would they call an autumn morning that smiles through its ragged clouds?
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You have stained your fingers and face with ink while writing -- is that why they call you dirty?
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Take no heed of what they say to you, my child.
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You tore your clothes while playing -- is that why they call you untidy?
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O, fie! Would they dare to call the full moon dirty because it has smudged its face with ink?
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Take no heed of what they say to you, my child.
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How horrid of them to be always scolding you for nothing?
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Why are those tears in your eyes, my child?
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