Fascicle 4

"What is the essential nature of the perfection of moral precepts? Wild folly and violent cruelty, delighting in destroying life; greed and theft of what belongs to others; lechery and defiling impurity; divisive speech, harsh cursing, false speech, idle chatter; envy, anger, and delusion of mind; endangering one's own parents and killing the sagely; slandering the Buddha and confusing the worthy; taking what belongs to a shrine or temple; harboring rebellious and violent intent; destroying the Three Jewels — faced with such fundamental evils as these, one should rather be flayed and cut into strips, pickled and minced in the marketplace, than ever commit them; better to believe in the Buddha and the Three Jewels, and to be universally saved by the four immeasurable virtues."

Long ago the bodhisattva was a lay devotee, and the country he lived in had a king who governed truthfully, urging his ministers and people to know the Three Jewels; those who kept the precepts and observed the fasts were exempted from taxes and labor service. The people, high and low, seeing that the king honored the worthy, largely put on a false show of goodness while secretly following their own crooked ways. The king, using the Buddha's own precepts to observe his people's conduct, saw that many were outwardly good but inwardly corrupt, betraying the Buddha's pure transformation, and so, as a deliberate stratagem, issued this decree: "Whoever dares to uphold the Buddhist path shall be punished by execution in the marketplace." Those whose goodness had been false abandoned the truth at once and freely returned to their original wickedness. The bodhisattva, already advanced in years, holding within him the vast clarity of true and right understanding, was astonished to hear this decree, and said: "To abandon the truth and follow wickedness in order to gain the rank of emperor, a lifespan equal to heaven and earth, wealth and honor without limit, and every pleasure at will — this I will never do. Even if it costs me but a single meal's worth of life, to be able to witness the transformation of the Three Jewels' utmost truth is something I would gladly hold to. To possess ten thousand million scrolls of worldly records, to dwell in a heavenly palace for the fullest span of heaven's own years, and yet to remain in the dark about the Three Jewels, never hearing the Buddha's scriptures — this I do not wish for. To receive the Buddha's own word, even at the cost of execution and death, is a fate I accept with a glad heart. The scripture says: 'Living beings cast themselves into the three lower paths; it is difficult to attain the human path, difficult to be born in a central land, difficult to have the six faculties complete, difficult to be born in a country where the Way is taught, difficult to become close to a bodhisattva, difficult to see the scriptures and believe them, difficult to penetrate their profound and subtle meaning, difficult to meet a monk of lofty conduct and serve him with a pure heart, difficult to meet a buddha and receive his prediction.' My past merit has already borne fruit — now that I have seen the Buddha's scriptures and been able to honor the Three Jewels, even should I meet the cruelty of being pickled and minced without cause, the torment of boiling water and fire, I will never abandon the truth to follow such wicked sorcery." "The king commanded his officials to investigate and identify anyone who defied his decree, to be executed in the marketplace. The investigating officer saw that the bodhisattva's resolve was firm and unshaken, that his devotion to the Three Jewels never wavered in the slightest, and seized him and reported this. The king said, 'Execute him in the marketplace,' but secretly sent someone to listen to and observe what he would say. As the bodhisattva went to his death, he instructed his son: 'Since heaven and earth first arose and people came into being, living beings dwelling in this world have let their six senses throw their conduct into confusion, worse than drunken madness, and few have ever glimpsed the Three Jewels or the pure and clear transformation they offer. You are fortunate enough to know the Dharma — take care never to abandon it. To give up the conduct of the Buddha's own teaching and follow instead the falsehoods of ghosts and demons is certain to bring ruin upon a country. I would rather give up my own body than depart from the truth. The king is now mistaken and confused — do not follow his error.'" The investigating officer reported this. The king, learning that his conduct was genuinely true, was delighted, and summoned him, taking his hand and leading him up to the hall, saying: "You may truly be called a disciple of the Buddha." He appointed him prime minister, entrusting him with the governance of the state, and restored the exemption from taxes and labor service to those who had abandoned the Buddha's pure transformation out of fear, and from that time on, there was no one in the entire kingdom who did not strive to be good." The Buddha said to the monks: "The king of that time was Maitreya. The lay devotee was I myself." This is how the bodhisattva, holding to his resolve, practicing the boundless perfection of moral precepts, kept the precepts.

Long ago the bodhisattva was born as the king of the elephants, his mind vast and far-reaching, aware that there is a Buddha, a Dharma, and a community of monks, always holding the three refuges, always relieving living beings with universal compassion, vowing that when he attained buddhahood he would deliver every being. He had five hundred elephants in his herd and, at that time, two wives. The elephant king found a lotus flower in the water, of extraordinarily fine color, and gave it to his principal wife. Receiving the flower, she said with delight: "The cold has been especially severe — how could such a flower exist?" His lesser wife, consumed with jealousy, made this bitter vow in her anger: "I will surely poison you with a heavy toxin!" — and, choking on her own resentment, she died. "Her spirit, in transformation, was reborn as the daughter of a family of the four castes, her beauty surpassing all others, her intelligence penetrating and clear, learned in matters both ancient and modern, able to observe the heavens and understand the rise and fall of the times. The king, hearing of her, took her as his consort. As soon as she arrived, she set out matters of governance in ways that matched a loyal minister's own counsel, and the king, delighted, honored her, and always followed what she said. The consort said: 'I dreamed I saw a six-tusked elephant, and my heart longs for its tusks to make into ornaments for my table. If the king does not obtain them for me, I will surely die.' The king said: 'Do not speak such strange nonsense — people will only laugh at you.' The consort said: 'My very life hangs on this, and my heart is bound in sorrow.' The king summoned four ministers to deliberate, telling them his own dream, and asked: 'Has there ever been such an elephant, in ancient times or now?' One minister answered, 'There is no such thing.' Another said, 'The king did not truly dream this.' Another said, 'I have heard of such a creature, but it dwells impossibly far away.' Another said, 'If it could truly be obtained, Śakra himself would be flying about here even now.' The four ministers then summoned hunters from the four directions to ask them. A hunter from the south said: 'My late father always used to say: "Such a creature exists, but it is far away and hard to reach."' The ministers reported this, saying, 'This man knows of it.' The king had him brought before him. The consort said: 'Go due south three thousand leagues; when you reach the mountains, enter them, and after about two days' travel, you will arrive at the place where the elephant dwells. Beside the road, dig a pit, remove your beard and hair and put on a monk's robe, and shoot him from within the pit. Cut off his tusks, and bring both of them back to me.' "The hunter did exactly as commanded, and went to where the elephant roamed. Before shooting the elephant, he put on the monk's robe, carried an alms bowl, and settled himself within the pit. The elephant king saw the monk and, lowering his head, said: 'Greetings, ascetic! What is it that brings you to threaten my life?' He said: 'I wish to obtain your tusks.' The elephant said: 'My pain is hard to bear — take my tusks quickly and be gone, and do not let my mind be disturbed into giving rise to an evil thought. One whose intent is evil, at death, falls into Mount Tai, into the realm of hungry ghosts, or into that of animals. To hold to patience and practice compassion, to return good for evil, is the highest conduct of a bodhisattva; even if my flesh were cut up and dried into meat upon a chopping board, I would never depart from this conduct. One who cultivates this conduct, at death, rises to heaven at once, and swiftly attains liberation.' The man then cut off his tusks, and the elephant said: 'You, ascetic, should now walk backward, so that the herd cannot follow your tracks.' Once the man had gone some distance, the elephant, unable to bear the pain any longer, threw himself to the ground, cried out loudly, and died at once, and was born at once in heaven. The herd of elephants came from every direction, saying together: 'Who has killed our king?' They searched but could not find the culprit, and returned to guard their king's body, wailing in grief. "The hunter returned with the tusks. The king, seeing the elephant's tusks, was struck with sorrow and dread; the consort took the tusks in her own hands, and just as she was about to look at them, a bolt of thunder and lightning struck her down, and she vomited blood and died, falling into hell." The Buddha said to the monks: "The elephant king of that time was I myself. The principal wife was Yaśodharā. The hunter was Devadatta. The lesser consort was Sundarī." This is how the bodhisattva, holding to his resolve, practicing the boundless perfection of moral precepts, kept the precepts.

Long ago the bodhisattva was the king of the parrots, always honoring the Buddha's teaching, taking refuge in the Three Jewels. Even facing death, he would not commit any of the ten evils, teaching and transforming others with a compassionate heart, holding the six perfections foremost in his mind. At that time, the king of that country was fond of eating parrots, and hunters competed to capture them; seeing a flock of parrots, they netted them and caught the entire group, presenting them as tribute to the royal kitchen. The cooks gathered them, and, once fattened, prepared them as a delicacy. The parrot king reflected deeply: living beings, in their turmoil, rush headlong into ruin and lose their lives, turning endlessly through the three realms, all because of food. He said to those who followed him: "Give up greed and abandon eating; the body may suffer a little discomfort, but your life may yet be hoped for. The foolish gorge themselves without restraint, their minds giving no thought to the future, like a stingy child greedy for the little honey on a blade, unaware of the danger of having his tongue cut. I will now ration my own food, and you should do the same." Day by day the parrot king grew thinner, until, through the bars of his cage, he was able to squeeze through and escape, perching atop the cage and saying: "There is no greater evil than greed; there is no more brilliant good than freedom from desire." He said further: "The buddhas teach that greed is a prison, a net, a poison, a blade; if you all reduce your food as I have, you may yet be as I am now." From that time on, the bodhisattva, even when born as an ordinary person, sustained himself on coarse food and covered his body with plain clothing, holding the precept against greed constantly in his mind, never letting a single day pass without it; when his merit made him a great king, he still used the Buddha's own wisdom to observe the burdens of governing a kingdom, and his accumulated blessing grew ever higher and more abundant, beyond all reckoning. Nothing is permanent, nothing is secure; there is only suffering, never lasting joy; whatever exists is bound to perish, the body itself a false illusion, as fragile to preserve as an egg, as hard to nurture as a wolf cub. Whoever truly sees this cannot help but tremble. The bodhisattva, life after life, took the precepts as his conduct, and at last accomplished the state of Tathāgata, the one attached to nothing, the true and right Way, the most perfectly awakened, teacher of gods and men. The Buddha said to the monks: "The parrot king of that time was I myself. The human king was Devadatta." This is how the bodhisattva, holding to his resolve, practicing the boundless perfection of moral precepts, kept the precepts.

Long ago the bodhisattva was a royal crown prince named Dharmadatta, pure within and clean without, always guarding his own heart against the calamity of following wickedness, honoring the sages and revering his parents, compassionately relieving living beings. When the prince attended court, he always deferred to the prime minister, advancing and withdrawing with perfect propriety, never once losing proper conduct. One of the king's favored concubines, harboring lustful and wicked intent, went out and made advances on the prince; the prince resisted with all his strength and escaped, and in the struggle struck the prime minister on the head, saying, "Away!" His hat fell to the ground, exposing the prime minister's bald head, and the concubine laughed at this; ashamed, he harbored resentment. The concubine wept before the king, saying: "Though I am lowly and humble, I am still the king's own wife, and the prince showed no proper respect — he desired me." The king said: "The prince's own conduct never departs from the Buddha's own aims, never speaks contrary to the Buddha's teaching, never acts against the Buddha's own path; he is praised throughout the eight directions, unmatched by any other kingdom — how could there be any impropriety in him?" But slanderous words repeated many times over began to confuse the king's own heart. The king said: "For flesh and blood to harm one another is called rebellion and treachery — I will not do this." He appointed the prince a border governor instead, sending him eight thousand leagues from the capital, saying: "You shall guard the border, and act with heaven's own benevolence there, never destroying the lives of the people, never greedily oppressing the poor and destitute, honoring the old as your own parents, loving the people as your own children, carefully upholding the Buddha's precepts and holding to the Way even unto death. The world is full of deceit and falsehood — only when a matter has been sealed by the very teeth that spoke it will you truly believe it." The prince bowed his head, weeping, and said: "I dare not disregard this honored instruction." He then took up his post, and, through the five precepts and the ten virtues, transformed the country's people with compassion; within a single year of his governance, distant people, drawn by his grace, came flocking to submit to him, increasing his registered households by more than ten thousand, and he reported this to the king, who marveled that his own virtue's grace could reach so far. "The king and his queen, hearing this, rejoiced and praised him. But the concubine still harbored her resentment, and conspired together with the prime minister to remove the prince; watching for a moment when the king was asleep, she used wax to forge his seal and falsified a letter: 'You are guilty of disrespect toward your superior; unable to bear executing you face to face, upon receipt of this letter, gouge out your own eyes at once, and send them back to the capital by this messenger.' When the messenger arrived, all the ministers said together: 'This must be the order of some wicked, treasonous conspiracy, and cannot be the true wish of the great king himself.' The prince said: 'The great king spoke plainly to me before — this now must be his true and sincere command. To value my own body over my parent's wish would be the greatest of transgressions.' He then spent three days feasting joyfully with his ministers, traveled throughout the whole territory, relieving the poor and needy, teaching the people with a compassionate heart modeled on the Buddha's own reflection. He sought out someone capable of removing his own eyes, and a grass-cutter's boy was found who gouged out his eyes, which were given to the messenger. Sealed in a box, they were carried swiftly back to the capital; the prime minister handed them to the favored concubine, who hung them before her bed and cursed them, saying: 'You would not follow my wishes — is having your eyes gouged out satisfying now?' "The great king dreamed that a snake and a wasp had stung the prince's eyes, and, waking with a choking gasp, said: 'Could something strange have happened to my son?' The concubine said: 'The king's thoughts have dwelt on him so intensely that this is merely a dream — surely nothing is truly wrong.' The prince, now blind, sustained himself by playing the zither and begging for food, wandering from country to country, until at last he came to the kingdom of his own wife's father, the king. That king possessed a wondrous zither, and, hearing of the blind musician, summoned him to play it for him. The music's tone spoke of the virtue of a former king, yet carried none of the sorrow of an orphan without family. His own wife, understanding music deeply, was moved to tears, and said: 'My own husband is in such distress!' The king asked, 'What do you mean?' She told him the whole story, and, taking leave of her own father, said: 'This is my own fate to bear; for a woman to belong to two families would not be proper.' She asked to accompany this most filial of husbands. Her parents mourned this parting, and she took the prince back to his own country. "When the king heard there was a wondrous zither player in his land, he summoned him to play. His appearance was gaunt and worn, and the king could recognize him only by his voice. The king said: 'Are you not my own son, Dharmadatta?' The prince fell to the ground, choking with emotion. The queen, the palace women, and the entire country, high and low, were all overcome with grief. The wife told the whole story from beginning to end. The king said: 'Alas — a woman without benevolence is like rice mixed with poison. Is it not right, then, that the Buddha's teaching holds women at a distance?' He at once had the prime minister and the favored concubine seized, whipped them with thorny rods, poured hot pitch into their wounds, and, once the pitch had hardened, tore it away, and had them buried alive in a pit." The Buddha said to the monks: "In a past life, the prince had once sold pearls; that concubine was, at that time, the daughter of a wealthy family, riding in her carriage along the road, and the prime minister was, at that time, her carriage driver. She called to the boy selling pearls, saying: 'Let me see your pearls.' She held the pearls but would not buy them, gazing at him with lustful intent and speaking suggestively. The boy, angered, said: 'If you will not return my pearls but instead look at me with such lust, I will gouge out your eyes.' The woman and the carriage driver both said together: 'Do you think we would let ourselves be whipped with thorns, scalded with pitch, torn and buried alive because of you?' Good and evil, once set in motion, bring their own fortune and misfortune following after, as a shadow follows a form; when evil ripens into full guilt, it answers exactly as an echo answers a sound. To do evil and hope for no disaster is like planting a seed and wishing it never to sprout. The bodhisattva, having received the Buddha's own pure precepts, would rather have his eyes gouged out and die than commit an act of lust and be reborn through such a cause. At that time, the crown prince Dharmadatta was I myself. The prime minister was Devadatta. The favored concubine was Devadatta's own wife." This is how the bodhisattva, holding to his resolve, practicing the boundless perfection of moral precepts, kept the precepts.

Long ago the bodhisattva had two brothers, and the three of them, meeting with a great drought in the world in which the people devoured one another, all set out together to search for food to sustain their meager lives. Passing through dangerous mountains, they went without food for days, and the two elder brothers each said: "Could we not save ourselves by eating our wives?" The eldest brother killed his wife first, and divided her body into five portions; the youngest brother, moved to compassion and grief, would not eat of it. The second brother then killed his own wife as well, and the youngest brother choked back his grief all the more. The two elder brothers then wished to kill the youngest brother's wife as well, but he said: "To kill another in order to preserve myself is not the Buddha's way of benevolence — I will not do this." He took his wife and went into the mountains, gathering fruit to sustain themselves. "Dwelling in the mountains for years, there was a crippled man there whose wife carried on a secret affair with him, and together they plotted to kill her husband. She said, deceitfully, to her husband: 'It is only right that I, as your wife, should labor to support you — but instead you do the work. Tomorrow let me accompany you, and we will endure the hardship together.' He said, 'The mountains are extremely dangerous — you should not go.' She refused three times to be dissuaded, and so they went together. Seeing the mountain high and the valley deep, the wife pushed her husband off the cliff. A spirit dwelling by the water below caught him and kept him safe. The wife, satisfied that she had achieved her goal, returned and lived with the crippled man instead. "The husband, following the water's course, encountered some merchants, and told them his whole story from beginning to end. The merchants, moved with pity, carried him to a prosperous kingdom. That kingdom's king had died without an heir, and his ministers, deferring to one another, could not agree on a successor. They had a diviner examine passersby on the road, saying, 'Whoever among them bears the marks of kingship, let him be made king.' The diviner saw the bodhisattva and said at once: 'Excellent! This is a ruler who holds the Way, one who can shelter the countless people with heaven's own benevolence!' The assembled officials and common people, wiping away tears, praised him and wished him long life. They carried him into the palace and bestowed on him the imperial throne, and he nurtured the people with the four immeasurable virtues, entirely abolishing every wicked practice; he bestowed the five precepts and proclaimed the ten virtues, and the whole realm came to hold the precepts. Śakra, lord of the gods, then protected and blessed his kingdom; ghosts and demons fled, poisonous influences dissolved, grain and fruit ripened in abundance, neighboring kingdoms were transformed toward righteousness, old enemies became close friends, and people flocked to him like clouds gathering. "His former wife, now bearing her crippled husband, entered the kingdom to beg, telling of the hardship they had once endured together fleeing the world, and how they had now come to submit to this benevolent rule. The people of the kingdom, high and low, marveled at this, saying together: 'What a virtuous wife — she deserves to be recorded in the histories!' The queen said: 'She should be richly rewarded.' The king himself received the woman, and asked her: 'Do you recognize the Son of Heaven?' The woman, terrified, bowed her head to the ground. The king told the whole story from beginning to end to the palace attendants, and the minister in charge of justice said: 'She should be executed.' The king said: 'All the buddhas hold benevolence as the highest treasure of the three realms; I would rather give up my own life than depart from the way of benevolence.' The queen had the woman driven from the kingdom, and had her very footprints swept away." The Buddha said to Śāriputra: "The king was I myself. The crippled man was Devadatta. The wife was Sundarī." This is how the bodhisattva, holding to his resolve, practicing the boundless perfection of moral precepts, kept the precepts.

Long ago the bodhisattva was, at that time, an ordinary man, broadly learned in the Buddha's scriptures, deeply understanding the causes of sin and blessing, and skilled as well in every manner of medicine and the calls of birds and beasts, missing nothing. Seeing the world's confusion and corruption, he withdrew from public life and would not take office, honoring the Buddha's precepts and following only what was right. Living in poverty and hardship, he hired himself out as a porter for a merchant. Passing a riverbank at mealtime, a great flock of crows set up a raucous noise; the merchant, frightened, felt his hair stand on end, but the bodhisattva laughed. After the meal, they went on their way; returning to his own land, when the merchant paid him his wages, he asked: "The crows cried out and you laughed — there must have been some meaning in it!" He answered: "The crows were saying: 'That man carries a white pearl of very great value. If you kill him and take the pearl, we would like to eat his flesh.' That is why I laughed." The merchant asked: "Why did you not kill me, then?" He answered: "One who has not seen the Buddha's scriptures may commit the most heaven-reaching evil and think there is no disaster to follow — this is only self-deception. I have seen the unsurpassed, true and right scriptures, and observed the bodhisattva's own pure benevolence — even the smallest flying, crawling, wriggling creatures he loves and does not kill; even a blade of grass that is not his own, he does not take. One who delights in killing is without benevolence; one who delights in taking what is not given is without purity. In a past life I was defiled by the fault of taking what was not mine, and now I bear the consequence of this, living in poverty and hardship, hired out as another's servant; and if I were to commit this same fault again now, I would sow immeasurable further sin, and could no longer be called a disciple of the Buddha. I would rather hold to the Way in poverty and die than gain wealth and honor through wickedness and live." The merchant said: "Excellent! Only the Buddha's teaching is truly the truth." This is how the bodhisattva, holding to his resolve, practicing the boundless perfection of moral precepts, kept the precepts.

Long ago the bodhisattva lived in poverty and hardship, hired by merchants to go to sea for profit. Their ship stopped and would not move; the merchants, high and low, were all struck with terror, praying to every spirit and god above and below for deliverance. The poor man alone took refuge in the Three Jewels, keeping the precepts without transgression, repenting and reproaching himself three times each day and night. With a compassionate heart he made this vow: "May the living beings of the ten directions never know such terror as I feel today; when I attain buddhahood, I will deliver beings such as these." Yet even after seven days, the ship still would not move. The sea spirit, in a dream, falsely told the ship's owner: "Abandon the poor man, and I will let you pass." The ship's owner, waking from this dream, was struck with sorrow, and discussed it secretly among the others. The poor man, sensing something amiss, learned the whole matter, and said: "Do not let my one body be the cause of destroying so many lives." The owner had a raft made, provided him with dried provisions, placed him upon it, and pushed the raft far away. A great fish then capsized the ship and swallowed all the merchants whole; the poor man, carried by the wind, reached the shore and returned to his own land, and his whole extended family rejoiced. The poor man had attained this blessing through his devotion to the three refuges, the five precepts, the ten virtues, upholding the fast and repenting his faults, and holding a compassionate heart toward all living beings. The poor man was I myself." This is how the bodhisattva, holding to his resolve, practicing the boundless perfection of moral precepts, kept the precepts.

Long ago the bodhisattva kept the precepts in quiet seclusion, seeking no worldly glory, relying on the patronage of a family of the four castes as their grave-keeper; whenever there was a funeral, he always offered his own labor to assist. Grieving families, moved by this, would give him treasures in gratitude, but whatever he received, he always returned it to the family who sponsored him. The family said: "You obtained these treasures through your own labor — why return them to us?" The ascetic said: "I guard your own wilderness grounds, and it is on your own land that these people are buried; by rights, this treasure belongs to you." The family, marveling, said: "How admirable! Could even the sages of ancient times surpass you?" They chose from among their servant girls one of both virtuous conduct and radiant beauty, and gave her to him as a wife, dividing their family wealth to establish his own household. The ascetic said: "Let my conduct advance, and my virtue rise higher." At that time, the poor ascetic was I myself. The wife was Yaśodharā." This is how the bodhisattva, holding to his resolve, practicing the boundless perfection of moral precepts, kept the precepts.

Long ago the bodhisattva was, at that time, an ordinary person, devoted to the Three Jewels, keeping the precepts without fail. He traveled together with his uncle, peddling goods for their living, journeying to another country. The uncle crossed the water ahead of him, and stayed at the house of a widowed mother; the household had a young daughter, who said to her mother: "There is an old washing-basin out back — you could trade it with the merchant for white pearls." The mother, following her daughter's suggestion, showed it to the merchant, who scraped it with a knife to check the metal beneath, then pretended to throw it to the ground, saying, "You've dirtied my hands," and left at once on his way, leaving mother and daughter deeply humiliated. The nephew arrived later, and the daughter asked again about the pearls; her mother said, "Remember our earlier humiliation — let it be a lesson to us now." The daughter said: "Look at this young man — he has the bearing of a benevolent man, unlike that greedy and cruel one before," and showed him the basin again. The young man said: "This is pure refined gold — might I trade all my goods for it?" The mother said, "Agreed." The young man said: "Might you spare me two gold coins as fare to cross the water?" Just then his uncle returned and said: "I will give you a small amount of pearls in exchange — bring me that basin." The mother said: "A fine young man has already traded a famous pearl for my humble golden basin, and even thanked me for such a paltry item. If you do not leave at once, I will have you beaten." The uncle went to the riverbank, stamped his feet, and cried out: "Give me back my treasure!" — and, in his impatient rage, he beat his own chest so violently that he vomited blood and died. His nephew returned the gold to him, only to find him already dead, and said, choking with grief: "Could greed truly bring a man to lose his own life?" The bodhisattva kept faith and gained treasure; Devadatta, through greed and deceit, lost his own life. The young man was I myself. The uncle was Devadatta." This is how the bodhisattva, holding to his resolve, practicing the boundless perfection of moral precepts, kept the precepts.

Long ago the bodhisattva, in a time beyond counting kalpas, and his brother, dealt in goods together to support their parents. Traveling to another country, he sent his younger brother to present a pearl to that country's king. The king, seeing the younger brother's fine bearing, was delighted, and offered his own daughter in marriage, asking a thousand myriad in payment for the pearl. The younger brother returned and told his elder brother, who then went himself to see the king. The king, seeing the elder brother's dignified and stately appearance, his every word drawn from the sacred texts, of a grace hard to match, honored him all the more, and offered his daughter to him instead. The princess herself was overjoyed at this. But the elder brother thought to himself: "A husband's elder brother is like a father to his wife's family; an uncle's wife is like his own child — such a relationship carries the closeness of father and child; how could there be any question of marriage between us? This king, holding the exalted rank of a ruler of men, behaves instead like a beast." He at once took his younger brother and withdrew. The princess, climbing to a high tower and looking out, cried: "Since I have become a demon of jealous poison, may I not now feast on my elder brother's liver!" "Turning through the cycle of birth and death, the elder brother was reborn as a macaque, and the princess and the younger brother were both reborn as turtles, husband and wife. The turtle-wife fell ill, and longed to eat a macaque's liver; her husband went out to seek one for her. Seeing the macaque come down to drink, the turtle said: 'Have you ever seen true pleasure?' He answered, 'Never.' The turtle said: 'My home holds wondrous pleasures — would you like to see them?' He said, 'Yes.' The turtle said: 'Climb upon my back, and I will show you.' The macaque climbed on and followed him. Halfway across the stream, the turtle said: 'My wife longs to eat your liver — what pleasure could there possibly be in the water?' The macaque, inwardly ashamed of himself, thought: 'To hold to the precepts and keep to goodness is the constant rule; but to find some clever expedient in a moment of danger is the greater necessity.' He said aloud: 'Why did you not say so earlier? I have left my liver hanging on a tree.' The turtle, believing him, turned back. Once ashore, the macaque said: 'You foolish, dying creature — does any creature really hang its own liver on a tree, out of its own belly?'" The Buddha said to the monks: "The elder brother was I myself, who always held to chastity and purity, never once committing an act of lust; but, at the end of my remaining karmic residue, I fell into the form of a macaque. The younger brother and the king's daughter both received the form of turtles, the male being Devadatta and the female being Devadatta's own wife." This is how the bodhisattva, holding to his resolve, practicing the boundless perfection of moral precepts, kept the precepts.

Long ago the bodhisattva sailed across the sea, gathering treasures to relieve the needy. By the seashore there was a city, its gardens fully appointed, and a beautiful woman came to the water's edge and invited his companions, saying: "This land is rich and fertile, and its treasures are yours for the asking — please come into the city, and see for yourselves what abundance our people enjoy." The merchants, deceived and bewitched by these demons in disguise, believed her and stayed, living there for five years. The bodhisattva, moved by longing for his own parents in his homeland, left the city, climbed a mountain, and looked out in every direction, and saw, within an iron-walled city, a man wearing a heavenly crown, sitting in solemn dignity, who said to the bodhisattva: "Are you all deceived? To take demons as your wives, abandoning the deep bonds owed to your own parents and nine classes of kin, to be devoured by demons — is this not folly indeed? Do not sleep — examine closely what is true and what is false. There is a divine horse that will soon come flying here to save the multitude; cling to it and you may preserve your life whole. But if you cling instead to your demon-wife, you will die and enter this very city, where every torment will be inflicted upon you, and repentance then will be of no help at all." The bodhisattva, heeding this warning, feigned sleep and observed closely, and saw the truth exactly as told, and his heart was struck with dread. The next day he secretly told the others, and they all watched together, and saw their wives transform into the bodies of foxes, competing with one another to devour human flesh. There was no one among them who was not stricken with horror, saying: "We are dead men!" But in their fear and preparation, they grew careless, and were lost all the same. Then the horse-king arrived and called out: "Whoever holds in his heart a longing to return to his own family, come quickly to me, and I will save you." The merchants, overjoyed, said: "This must surely be a heavenly being!" and rushed together to entrust themselves to him. His wife, holding their child, followed his tracks, wailing in grief, and cried out: "I curse high heaven! For years I was your wife, and now I am treated as a demon!" Her mournful cries were deeply affecting. She went before the king of that land and told her story exactly as before: "Now I am utterly lost, with nothing to rely on — I beg only that the great king take pity on my situation." The king summoned the bodhisattva and asked him the reason, and he told the whole story exactly as he had seen it. But the king, seeing her beauty, quickly sent the husband away, and took her into his own inner palace to indulge his own lust, and the governance of the kingdom fell into disorder. The demon, transformed into a fox, went daily to devour people, causing ever greater harm, and the king never once realized it. "Later, when their lives came to an end, and birth and death turned on in their cycle, the bodhisattva, through his accumulated virtue, at last attained buddhahood. The fox-demon's spirit was reborn in the household of a brahmin, possessed of extraordinary beauty. At that time the Buddha, in the county where this occurred, went out to beg for food, and after eating, left the city and sat beneath a tree. The brahmin, seeing the Buddha's fine marks, his complexion like purple gold, a halo of light at his neck like a moon among the stars, was filled with immeasurable joy at the sight of him, and returned to tell his daughter's mother: 'Our daughter has found a husband, one who will become the hero of the world. Quickly bring the finest garments and every fine thing the world has to offer.' The brahmin's household brought their daughter to present her, and on the road they saw the Buddha's footprints. His wife said: 'Could this be the footprint of some desireless divine hero — how could he ever let lust disturb his resolve?' Her husband said: 'Our daughter is the finest flower of the kingdom — how could such a man of high virtue fail to be moved by her?' His wife then recited a verse on this very meaning: 'One driven by lust drags his feet as he walks; one full of anger walks with clenched toes; the foolish stamp their feet into the earth — but such a footprint as this belongs to one honored by gods and men. Do not bring shame upon yourself.' Her husband said: 'You have shallow understanding,' and, defying her, went on his way, and presented their daughter to the Buddha. The World-Honored One said: 'The sixth heavenly demon-king once offered me his own three daughters, who transformed themselves into withered hags. Now you, a mere bag of filth, come here for what purpose?' The brahmin was struck with shame, and his wife's humiliation was even greater. At that time, there was a monk present, who came forward, bowed his head, and said: 'I wish to be given her instead.' The World-Honored One warned him: 'In a past life you were a king, and she was, at that time, a demon; through her beauty she deceived you and devoured your entire people — have you still not had enough of this?' The monk, struck with shame, withdrew into meditation and attained concentration, reaching the fruit of stream-entry." The Buddha said to Śāriputra: "From the moment the bodhisattva received the precepts from the man within that city, he returned home, took refuge in the Three Jewels, and made this vow to himself: 'When death comes, though I die, I will never again violate the pure and weighty precepts of the Tathāgata, the worthy one, the truly and rightly awakened.' Through the accumulation of countless precepts kept, the Buddha-path was at last accomplished. At that time, the elder was I myself. The king is now one of these very monks. The demon was the brahmin's daughter. The heavenly being within the iron city was Śāriputra." This is how the bodhisattva, holding to his resolve, practicing the boundless perfection of moral precepts, kept the precepts.

Thus have I heard: at one time the Buddha was at Jetavana, in Anāthapiṇḍada's Park, in a country called Śrāvastī. At that time the Buddha said to the monks: "Long ago there was a country called Vārāṇasī, whose king had a crown prince named Mūka, born with boundless understanding, his wisdom unobstructed regarding matters past, present, and future, his bearing radiant like the moon among the stars. The king had only this one son, beloved by the entire kingdom, but at the age of thirteen, he closed his mouth and would not speak, as though he were mute. The queen, worried, summoned various brahmins to ask the reason for this. They answered: 'This is an ill omen. A prince so fine in appearance and yet unable to speak — what good is he to the great king? If the rear palace produces no further heir, is this not surely his doing? By the proper rite, he should be buried alive, and a worthier heir will surely follow.' The king, deeply troubled, went in to discuss this with the queen, and the queen and the palace women were all overcome with grief, lamenting: 'How is it that the prince's fortune is so thin, that he should meet with such calamity at birth?' Mourners filled the road, as though for a great funeral. He was dressed in his finest jeweled robes and handed over to the funeral attendants. The attendants stripped him of his fine garments before burying him. Mūka thought to himself: 'The king and the people of this country truly believe I am mute.' He then silently gathered his clothes, entered the water, bathed himself clean, anointed his body with fragrant oil, dressed himself again in fine robes, and, standing at the edge of the burial pit, called out: 'What are you all doing?' They answered: 'The prince is mute and deaf, and the kingdom has no heir; the king has ordered him buried alive, hoping for a worthier heir to follow.' He said: 'I am Mūka himself.' The attendants looked at their cart and found it suddenly, inexplicably empty, and, gazing upon his form, saw it shining with radiant light, its brilliance reaching far across the wild grasslands like the very brightness of the sun; his sacred, majestic presence moved even the spirits themselves. The attendants, high and low, were all struck with astonishment, staring at one another, their faces turning pale, and every word they tried to speak came out as if trembling with fear. Looking up to heaven, they said: 'The prince's spiritual virtue has reached even this!' and, bowing their heads, said: 'We beg you to return and set the king's mind at ease, that the whole kingdom need mourn no longer.' The prince said: 'Go quickly and report to the king that I can speak.' The messengers rushed to report this; the queen and the countless people, astonished at this news, rejoiced greatly, and there was no one who was not overjoyed; carriages rushed and people ran, crowding and blocking the roads. Mūka thought to himself: 'Having attained this state of pure and quiet conduct befitting a renunciant, would it not be good to remain so?' — and at first this was his intention. "Śakra then transformed a garden, a pool, and trees such as the world had never seen, and transformed away the prince's fine garments into a monk's robe. When the king arrived, the prince prostrated himself fully on the ground and bowed with proper ceremony; the king took his seat and listened to his voice, its light and majestic power moving heaven and earth itself, and the king, overjoyed, said to him: 'Since I have had you, the whole kingdom has honored and loved you; you shall inherit the throne of heaven, and become father and mother to the people.' He answered: 'I beg only that the great king take pity and receive my humble words. In a past life, I was once the king of this very country, named Sunetra, and for twenty-five years I governed the people, practicing the ten virtues in my own person, nurturing the people with compassion; the rod and every weapon of war were entirely set aside and unused, the prisons held no prisoners, no cry of complaint was heard on any road, and my giving flowed forth without ever failing to reach everyone. But because I traveled about with a very great retinue, and my leading ministers cleared the roads before me, the common people were struck with terror at my passing — and in the end I entered Mount Tai, boiled and cut apart for sixty thousand years, unable even to obtain death, crying out with no one to save me. At that very time, though I had nine classes of relatives within my palace and ministers and people without, though my wealth was beyond counting and every pleasure without limit — did any of them know that I had entered the burning, cutting, boiling hell of Mount Tai, suffering pain beyond all measure? The glory of that former life — my wife, my children, my ministers and people — who among them could share and take away even a portion of my suffering? Those countless torments, whenever I recall them even now, make my very bones ache and my heart tremble; my body breaks into a cold sweat, my hair stands on end. To speak of what is past invites disaster to return, and misfortune follows close upon it like a shadow; though I wished to speak, I feared bringing further guilt upon myself, for the suffering of Mount Tai is not something one could bear to experience twice — and so I drew back my tongue and wished to say nothing at all. For the first thirteen years of this life, that is why I remained silent. It was only when a wicked advisor persuaded the king to have me buried alive that, fearing the great king himself would incur the guilt of Mount Tai, I spoke this one time. Now I wish to become a renunciant, holding to a conduct free of desire, having seen the very gate through which all these calamities come, and I no longer wish to be king. I beg you not to think this strange.' The king said: 'You have been a fine ruler, your conduct lofty and your virtue honored, guiding the people by the Way in matters no greater than the width of a hair, matters no one else would even remember — and yet you incurred such guilt, such cruel suffering as this? If I, who now rule as lord of men, follow my own heart's desires without honoring the true Dharma, what end awaits me?' He then permitted him to study the Way. The king himself returned to govern the country with rectitude and without wickedness, and the kingdom achieved abundance and peace. Mūka then refined his own heart, cut off all desire, and, his resolve advancing toward the truth of the Way, at last attained buddhahood, and widely proclaimed this bright model, relieving living beings until he reached final liberation." The Buddha said to the monks: "Mūka at that time was I myself. The father-king is now King Śuddhodana. The mother is now my own mother, Māyā. Glory, beauty, and wicked pleasure are the very furnace that burns the body; purity and simplicity are the household free of affliction. If you wish to escape calamity and be free of guilt, do not depart from the Buddha's teaching. To follow the Way, though it be hard, is still better than dwelling in the three lower paths; to be human is to be far from poverty and destitution, and free of the eight difficulties. The resolve to study the Way should be modeled on the Buddha's own conduct; whoever wishes to attain the fruit of a pratyekabuddha, or of an arhat, or final liberation, may attain it by seeking it." When the Buddha had finished speaking this sūtra, there was no monk who did not rejoice, bowing his head in reverence.

Thus have I heard: at one time the Buddha was at Jetavana, in Anāthapiṇḍada's Park in the country of Śrāvastī. At that time, the monks, sitting quietly at leisure, reflected deeply: "People of the world practice wickedness and delight in desire, and from beginning to end, are any of them ever satisfied with the five pleasures? What are these five pleasures? Sights seen by the eye, sounds heard by the ear, scents smelled by the nose, tastes savored by the mouth, and smooth sensations felt by the body. Of these five desires, is there anyone who, even at the very end of life, is ever truly satisfied?" After midday, they went together before the Buddha, bowed their heads at his feet, and, withdrawing to stand, said: "World-Honored One, we have been reflecting that the foolish of this world are deluded by the five desires — is there anyone among them who, even at the end of life, is ever satisfied?" The Buddha told them: "In this world, there is no satisfaction to be found in these five pleasures. Long ago there were five hundred merchants who went to sea to gather profit; among them was a wise man named Milan, who served as their guide and leader. In the sea there was a divine fish named Makara, who struck and destroyed their ship, and all were lost except Milan, who, clinging to a plank, barely escaped with his life. Carried by the wind, he was washed ashore at a place called Bimā. Climbing onto land, he wandered about to recover himself, and, seeing a small path, followed it onward. In the distance he saw a silver city, its trees lush and thriving, with a bathing pool within, surrounded on all sides by sweet flowing water. Four beautiful women, their beauty equal to that of heavenly maidens, came out to receive him, saying: 'You have crossed the vast ocean, and your labors have been great — congratulations on your safe arrival. This silver city holds every treasure within it — gold, silver, crystal, lapis lazuli, coral, and amber, its halls built of mother-of-pearl. We four women are here to serve and attend you; whether we rest in the evening or rise at dawn, we await only your command, and ask only that you not wander elsewhere.' Milan entered the city and ascended a hall of the seven treasures, indulging every pleasure and desire, wanting for nothing, and dwelt there for over a thousand years. Milan then thought to himself: 'These jade maidens do not let me travel on — is there some reason for this?' Watching for a moment when the four women were asleep, he quietly slipped away. "In the distance he then saw a golden city, with eight jade maidens who greeted him in exactly the same way as before, their beauty surpassing even the first four. The city's jeweled hall was called Powder-and-Dust, its bright pearls and every treasure surpassing what came before, and he dwelt there for several thousand myriad years. Again he wondered: 'These eight maidens do not let me travel on — is there some reason for this?' Watching for their sleep, he again slipped quietly away. "He then saw a city of crystal, with sixteen jade maidens who came out to greet him, speaking exactly as before, and led him into the city and up into a hall of the seven treasures. The city's hall and its every treasure, and the maidens' own radiant beauty, surpassed what came before, and he dwelt there again for several thousand myriad years. "His mind still not satisfied, he again watched for the maidens' sleep and slipped away, and saw a city of lapis lazuli, its brilliance shining forth magnificently, with thirty-two maidens who came out to greet him, kneeling and bowing, speaking with the same reverent words as before. They invited him into the city and up into a hall of the seven treasures, called Uttarakuru; its every treasure, its music, its fine food, and the women's beauty all surpassed what came before, and he dwelt there again for the same long span of years as before. "Again he watched for the maidens' sleep and slipped away, and in the distance saw an iron city, with no one at all coming out to greet him. Milan thought to himself: 'The silver city had four maidens, the golden city eight, the crystal city sixteen, the lapis lazuli city thirty-two — jade maidens of radiant beauty, each more reverent in their greeting than the last. Why does no one greet me now? Could it be because of my own high station?' Circling the city once, he found a demon who opened the gate; Milan entered the city and saw the demon at once — its name was Juyin — an iron wheel, burning red-hot, spinning atop its head. This was a demon who guarded condemned sinners; it took the burning wheel from its own head and placed it upon Milan's head instead, and his brain flowed and his body burned. Milan wept and said: 'From four maidens to eight, from eight to sixteen, from sixteen to thirty-two, I dwelt in glory in the Powder-and-Dust Hall, the Uttarakuru Hall — through conduct that knew no satisfaction, I have brought this upon myself. When will I ever be free of this affliction?' The guardian demon answered: 'For as many years as you spent in those pleasures, so long must you bear this in return, and only then will you be free of this calamity.' The fiery wheel remained upon Milan's head for six hundred million years before he was finally freed of it." The Buddha said to the monks: "Milan was I myself. And why was this so? Before I had yet honored the Three Jewels, in my foolishness and delusion I believed in wicked things; my mother, having bathed and put on new clothes, lay down to sleep, and I trod upon my mother's head — this is why, in Mount Tai, the fiery wheel crushed my own head in turn. And yet, having once, on the eighth day of the fourth month, kept the eight precepts and the fast with a joyful heart, I obtained in return those jeweled cities, a lifespan of countless millions of years, every wish granted according to my heart, nothing sought that was not obtained. And still, in this world, there was no satisfaction to be found — only the attainment of the Way itself could bring that to an end." The Buddha said to the monks: "When Milan emerged from the hell of Mount Tai, he closed his heart to the three evils, cut off from his mouth the four kinds of harmful speech, and examined his own body for its three faults. He was filial and reverent to his parents, personally honored the Three Jewels, wore the precepts as his own crown, dressed himself in the precepts as his own robe, held the precepts as his own provisions, savored the precepts as his own delicacy; in eating, resting, sitting, and walking, he never forgot the Buddha's precepts, and, step by step, through the accomplishment of this virtue of precepts, he brought himself at last to buddhahood. As for the conduct of ordinary people — those who are not filial to their parents, who do not honor and revere their teachers — I have seen the grave guilt they bring upon themselves afterward; Milan was just such a case. Evil deeds pursue their doer as surely as a shadow follows a body; cut off wickedness and honor the truth, and every calamity will dissolve of itself." When the Buddha had finished speaking this sūtra, the monks rejoiced and bowed in reverence.

Thus have I heard: at one time the Buddha was at Jetavana, in Anāthapiṇḍada's Park in the country of Śrāvastī. At that time, Ānanda, sitting quietly at leisure, reflected deeply: "Among living beings, from beginning to end, few indeed are ever satisfied with the five desires." After midday, he went before the Buddha, bowed his head, and, withdrawing, said: "World-Honored One, sitting quietly I have reflected: those among living beings who know contentment are few, while those unsatisfied by the five desires are many." The World-Honored One sighed and said: "Well said, well said! Just as you say. And why is this so? Long ago there was a king named Mūrdhagata, to whom every direction, east, west, south, and north, submitted as vassal. The king possessed seven treasures: the power of the flying golden wheel, a white elephant, a dark-blue horse, a bright moon pearl, a jade-maiden wife, a sage-counselor minister, and a minister who commanded his armies. These seven treasures of the king were a rarity such as the world had never seen. He also had a thousand sons, upright and elegant, wise and broadly learned, praised throughout the world as sages, their fierce strength subduing all before them, like lions themselves. The king, being both sage and benevolent, was beloved throughout all of heaven, and his lifespan reached into the hundreds of millions of years. The king thought to himself: 'I possess Aparagodānīya, one whole continent of the world, its land thirty-two myriad leagues across, its people thriving, its five grains rich and abundant, every household prosperous beyond what the world has ever seen — my kingdom already has all of this. And yet, if only heaven itself would rain down gold and silver coins for seven days and seven nights, and grant me this as well, would that not be excellent?' Heaven granted his wish, and rained down coins of the two treasures, filling his entire territory, the treasure's own brightness shining gloriously throughout the kingdom. The king's joy was beyond measure, and all the world came to offer congratulations. Day after day he rejoiced together with his ministers, and the people all praised him, attaining boundless joy for several thousand myriad years. "The king thought further: 'I possess this western land, thirty-two myriad leagues across, glorified by the seven treasures and by my thousand sons who bring honor to my kingdom, and heaven has rained coins upon me as the world has never before seen. And yet, I have heard that to the south lies Jambudvīpa, a land twenty-eight myriad leagues in length and breadth, its people numerous, granting whatever is sought there — would it not be delightful to obtain that land as well?' As soon as this thought arose in the king's mind, his golden wheel turned southward, and the seven treasures and his four armies rose up and flew there together, arriving all at once in that land. The king and people of that land were all delighted to submit to him, and the ruler and people of that territory rejoiced day after day; the king remained there to govern and transform them for the same span of years as before. "The king thought again: 'I possess the western land, and now I have gained the southern land as well — among the treasures of gods and men, what is there left to seek that I do not already have? Now I have heard that to the east lies Pūrvavideha, a land thirty-six myriad leagues across, its ruler and people possessing every treasure, grain, and rarity, nothing left unfulfilled — would it not be delightful to obtain that land as well?' As soon as he spoke this wish, the golden wheel turned eastward, and the seven treasures and his four armies flew there together and arrived at once; the ruler, ministers, and common people were all delighted to submit to him. Again he transformed the ruler and people through the true Dharma and benevolent governance, for the same span of years as before, and every household came to cherish his virtue. "The king thought again: 'I possess the western land, the southern land, and the eastern land, and among the treasures of gods and men, there is nothing I lack. Now I have heard that to the north lies Uttarakuru — would it not be excellent to gain and rule that land as well?' As soon as he opened his mouth to speak this wish, the golden wheel turned northward, and the seven treasures and his four armies flew there together just as before. As soon as they entered that territory, they saw from a distance that the ground was blue-green, like a kingfisher's feathers. The king said: 'Do you all see this blue-green ground?' They answered, 'We see it.' He said: 'This is the land of Uttarakuru.' They also saw ground that was white. He asked, 'Do you see it?' They said, 'We see it.' He said: 'This is rice, already husked and pounded — you may eat it.' They also saw jeweled trees, with soft and wondrous garments, bracelets, rings, and every marvelous ornament hanging upon them. He asked, 'Do you see these?' They answered, 'Indeed we do!' He said, 'You may wear them.' The king governed with benevolence and transformed the people with generosity of spirit, dwelling there for as many years as before. "He then thought further: 'I possess three continents of this world, and now I have gained the northern land of forty myriad leagues besides — I now wish to ascend to the Trāyastriṃśa Heaven, to the abode of Śakra himself.' As soon as this thought arose in the king's mind, the golden wheel rose upward, and the seven treasures and his four armies flew up into heaven together, entering Śakra's own palace. Śakra, seeing the king arrive, welcomed him with delight, saying: 'I have long heard of your lofty renown, and have long wished to meet you — how delightful that you have come flying here!' Taking his hand, he sat together with him, sharing half his own throne. The king looked all around and saw the heavenly palace's halls, built of gold, silver, crystal, lapis lazuli, coral, amber, mother-of-pearl, and true pearls, and his heart rejoiced at the sight of it. He then thought again: 'I possess four kingdoms, and treasure and coin beyond counting — such glory is hard to describe. If Śakra himself were to perish, and I were to take his place, would that not be the very height of my wishes?' As soon as this wicked thought arose, his spiritual powers vanished at once, and he found himself returned to his former palace, stricken at once with grave illness. His chief minister asked him: 'Heavenly King, your illness is grave — should the unspeakable happen, do you have any final instructions to leave behind?' The king said: 'If anyone should ask, "By what cause did the king lose his life?" answer them exactly as you have seen: through greed he fell ill, and so lost his life. Greed is the very blade that destroys life, the very foundation upon which kingdoms are lost. To depart from the Three Jewels and fall into the three lower paths — there is no cause for this but greed. Let this be a warning to my heirs who follow: the fire of greed and delusion is the very root that burns the body — take care never to be greedy. The more exalted one's glory, the higher the calamity that follows; the greater one's wealth, the more numerous one's enemies.' When the king died, his heirs recited this warning against greed, and it was passed down through the generations as a treasure. The people of the four continents honored his benevolent transformation, took refuge in the Three Jewels, and practiced the ten virtues as the law of their governance, and so attained lasting blessing." The World-Honored One said: "You see how rarely, in this world, anyone can set aside glory and honor and give up the five desires; only those who attain the fruits of stream-entry, once-returning, non-returning, arhatship, the awakening of a pratyekabuddha, the unsurpassed and truly awakened Way — the most perfectly enlightened, the guide of the Dharma, the teacher of gods and men — are able to cut them off entirely. As for the flying, wheel-turning emperor, the reason he was able to have every wish granted without fail was because, in past lives, he had practiced giving, precepts, patience, diligence, meditation, and wisdom — none of it was gained for nothing. King Mūrdhagata was I myself." When the Buddha had finished speaking this sūtra, Ānanda rejoiced, and bowed to the Buddha.

Thus have I heard: at one time the Buddha was at Jetavana, in Anāthapiṇḍada's Park in the country of Śrāvastī. The Buddha said to the monks: "Long ago the bodhisattva was a great king named Puṇyaraśmi, his compassionate kindness shining forth in every direction, praised in song across the ten directions, his people relying on his blessing as a beloved child relies on the peace given by its own parent. A neighboring king governed by strict and rigorous law, his strength like a lion's, able to snatch a bird out of flight with his bare hand. One day his cook had lost the meat for the royal meal, and rushed in the morning to the marketplace to find some; on the road he saw a fresh corpse, and took its flesh to prepare as a dish, its flavor surpassing even that of ordinary meat. The next day, when he prepared the usual fare, the king found it did not taste as good, and reproached the royal kitchen; the cook, in true confession, bowed his head and admitted what he had done. The king, ashamed within himself, said: 'Is human flesh truly so delicious?' and then secretly ordered the cook to make it his regular practice." The World-Honored One said: "One who indulges heavily in fine flavors thereby thins his own path of benevolence; and when the path of benevolence grows thin, the heart of a jackal or wolf arises within him. To become like a wolf, killing living creatures out of mere craving for their flesh, is why the whole world comes to hate such a person. The cook, obeying the king's order, secretly went on killing people to satisfy the king's craving, and the ministers and people cried out in distress. When this reached the king's ears and he sought out the culprit, the king himself declared it should be so, while secretly warning the cook: 'Be careful!' The authorities eventually caught him. The culprit said: 'The king himself ordered me to do this.' The assembled ministers remonstrated with the king: 'We have heard that a true king embodies virtue and benevolence as his law; his brilliance should equal the sun and moon in illuminating all things equally, his grace should nourish all as earth nourishes heaven, and he should embrace living beings as vast and unbounded as empty space — only then can one truly be called king over all under heaven. But to abandon benevolence and follow cruelty is to become no different from a jackal or wolf. To turn from light toward darkness is the way of the blind; to abandon relief and sink oneself is like a leaking boat foundering; to cast aside moisture and embrace drought is the way of fire and famine's own destruction; to turn one's back on the void and cling instead to what is solid is the very heart of a stone man. The conduct of a wolf, of blindness, of a sinking vessel, of fire and famine, of a heart like stone — such conduct is unfit even to oversee a royal kitchen, let alone to rule as king over all under heaven! To honor the highest virtue brings prosperity; to delight in cruelty and destruction brings ruin. Between these two paths of good and ill, which will the king choose?' The king said: 'Could a nursing infant be weaned from its mother's milk?' They answered, 'It could not.' The king said: 'Then I too am as that infant.' The ministers said together: 'A wolf cannot be tamed; a ruler without the Way cannot be honored as lord.' The ministers and people, with one heart and one voice, drove him out. "The king fled into the mountains, where he came upon a divine tree, and, bowing his head, made this vow: 'Let me return to my kingdom, and I will offer this tree a hundred kings in tribute.' Having made this vow, he set out, and, lying in wait wherever kings passed by, seized them one by one, like a hawk snatching sparrows, until he had captured ninety-nine kings. The spirit of the tree then appeared to him in an extraordinary form, and said to the man, now called Aṅgulimāla the Elder: 'You lost your own throne through lack of the Way — and now you commit this further atrocity. What is it you hope to gain?' Aṅgulimāla rushed toward the spirit, who vanished at once. "At that time, King Puṇyaraśmi was out inspecting the joys and sufferings of his people, and on the road he encountered a brahmin ascetic, who said: 'Great King, return to your palace — I have something to tell you.' The king said: 'I have already given my word that I would go out today, and a promise once given is hard to break. Please be seated, worthy one — I shall be back again soon.' He went out, and was captured by Aṅgulimāla, who threw him down beneath the tree. The king said: 'I do not fear the loss of my own life — I only regret breaking my word.' Aṅgulimāla asked, 'What do you mean?' The king explained fully that he had promised the ascetic to see him, and now wished only to receive the ascetic's own weighty teaching, however humble the offering he could make in return, and would die without regret. Aṅgulimāla released him. Returning, he saw the ascetic, who had himself arranged a high seat; the ascetic ascended it and spoke this verse: 'When the kalpa's number reaches its end, heaven and earth blaze with fire; Mount Sumeru and the great ocean are all reduced to ash. When the blessings of gods and dragons are exhausted, they too wither away amid it all; even heaven and earth themselves shall perish — what permanence, then, could a kingdom hold? Birth, old age, sickness, and death turn without end in their cycle; things go against what is wished for, and sorrow and grief become one's affliction. Desire runs deep and its calamity rises high, its wounds sparing nothing; the three realms are all suffering — what is there for a kingdom to rely upon? What exists arose originally from non-existence, brought about through causes and conditions; what flourishes must decline, and what is substantial must become empty. Living beings, in their restless stirring, all depend on this illusory dwelling; sound and echo are both empty, and so too is any land. Consciousness itself has no fixed form, riding upon the four serpents of the elements; the elephant-treasure of ignorance is taken as the very carriage of pleasure. Form has no constant master, and spirit has no constant home; the three realms are all illusion — how, then, could there be any true kingdom at all?' "Having received this verse, the king offered twelve thousand pieces of gold. The ascetic instructed him further: 'Hold the four truths of impermanence within you, and your calamity is certain to be dissolved.' The king said: 'I accept this with reverence, and dare not disregard this clear teaching.' He then returned to the tree, walking with a smile upon his face. Aṅgulimāla said: 'Your life hangs in danger even now — why this joy and this smile?' He answered: 'Words of the World-Honored One are rarely heard even in the three realms. Now that I hold them within me, what is the life of a mere kingdom worth regretting?' Aṅgulimāla, flattering him, said: 'I wish to hear this honored teaching.' The king then gave him the four verses, and Aṅgulimāla, astonished and delighted, exclaimed: 'How towering is the World-Honored One, to set forth these four truths of impermanence! Not to hear and see them is what is truly meant by madness and folly.' He then released all hundred kings, and sent each of them back to his own kingdom. "Aṅgulimāla, repenting his past faults and renewing himself, dwelt beside the tree, holding the four verses in mind day after day; when his life ended, his spirit passed on, and he was reborn as a crown prince. But when he took a wife, he proved unable to consummate the marriage. The king, deeply troubled by this, sought out women throughout the kingdom to try to cure him and make him a man, but in the end he grew only more dissolute and would not follow the true path. The king, enraged, had him bound and displayed at the crossroads, commanding passersby: 'Poke his head with your finger, and thereby shame him as you wish.' When ninety-nine people had done so, the prince died. His spirit transformed again, turning through the endless cycle of birth and death, until, in the time when the Buddha was in the world, he was born in the country of Śrāvastī. He lost his father early, and lived with his mother alone as an orphan. He served a brahmin teacher devoted to the Way, his nature deeply sincere and trustworthy, his strength great enough to wrestle an elephant; his teacher loved him and his fellow students respected him, and he was praised as worthy far and near; his teacher, whenever traveling, always entrusted their household to him. But his teacher's wife, harboring lustful desire, took his hand and spoke seductive words to entice him. Aṅgulimāla refused her, saying: 'Among the worthy elders and friends of this world, a man's father is my father, a woman is my mother — how much more so my own teacher's own honored wife? I would rather be burned alive than follow such disorder.' The teacher's wife, ashamed, withdrew and plotted her revenge. When her husband returned, she said: 'You have long praised that student as worthy — has he perhaps proven your judgment wrong?' and told him a fabricated wrong. The woman's deception seemed true, and the brahmin believed her. The teacher said to Aṅgulimāla: 'Do you wish to become an immortal sage?' He answered, 'Yes indeed.' The teacher said: 'Kill a hundred people, and cut off their fingers as proof — then you shall attain immortal sagehood.' Following this instruction, he took up a sword, and killed everyone he met, until he had gathered ninety-nine fingers, and the whole country fled before him in terror. Seeing his mother, he said with joy: 'Mother, the count is now complete — I shall become immortal at last.' The Buddha, perceiving that a wicked path was deceiving and endangering the multitude, one that spanned the whole world, transformed himself into a monk and walked before him, saying: 'The count of people is already complete.' Aṅgulimāla pursued him but could not catch up, and called out: 'Monk, stop!' The Buddha answered: 'I stopped long ago — it is you who have not stopped.' He asked, 'What do you mean by stopping?' The Buddha answered: 'I have entirely stopped every evil within myself; it is your own evil that still blazes on.' Aṅgulimāla's heart opened at once, as though clouds had suddenly parted, and he threw himself full-length upon the ground, bowing his head in repentance for his faults. Joining his hands, he followed the Buddha back to the monastery, and became a monk there. The Buddha then told him of his past lives, revealing to him the four truths of impermanence, and he attained the fruit of stream-entry; withdrawing beneath a tree, he closed his eyes, joined his hands, and, purging himself of every remaining defilement, advanced toward the state of no attachment. "The king then summoned several tens of thousands of soldiers to hunt down this wicked bandit, not yet knowing where he had gone. Passing by where the Buddha was, he was asked: 'Where has the king come from, that his body is covered in dust?' He answered: 'There is a wicked bandit in my kingdom who has killed innocent people, and I am now in pursuit of him.' The World-Honored One said to him: 'When a people first cultivates virtue and then abandons it to embrace wickedness, by what law should good governance treat them?' He answered: 'Honor them first, and treat them as lowly afterward — this is the proper rule of governance.' 'And if one first held the heart of a beast, and then abandoned it to embrace sagely virtue instead — by what law should this be treated?' He answered: 'Treat them as lowly first, and reward them as honored afterward — this too is the proper rule.' The Buddha said: 'This bandit has already abandoned wickedness and honored the truth — he is now a monk.' The king exclaimed: 'How wonderful! The Tathāgata, the one attached to nothing, the true and right Way, the most perfectly awakened, the guide of the Dharma, the teacher of gods and men — his wondrous, sublime transformation has reached even this far! One who was once a jackal and a wolf has now become heaven's own benevolent son.' He bowed his head at the Buddha's feet, and, marveling again, said: 'This transformation is astonishing — I beg to see it for myself.' The World-Honored One said, 'You may.' The king, together with his officials, approached and said: 'Might this honored and worthy one open his eyes and let us look upon his face?' He asked this three times. The monk answered: 'The light of my eyes is difficult to withstand.' The king bowed his head and said: 'Tomorrow I will prepare a modest offering, and beg only for a single glance.' He answered: 'I would come to a latrine — I would not come to a palace hall.' The king said, 'As you command.' Returning, he had a latrine torn down and its ground dug up and renewed, using fine camphor and catalpa wood for its pillars and beams, sprinkling the ground with fragrant water, and mixing sandalwood, storax, and turmeric incense into its very plaster; he laid felted rugs and fine silks as seats, carved and engraved with every fine ornament, adorned with every treasure, until it shone more magnificently than any palace hall. The next day the king himself carried an incense burner to welcome him. Aṅgulimāla took his seat, and the king, gathering up his own robes, knelt and made his offerings; when this was complete, he expounded the teaching, saying: 'This place was, until recently, a filthy latrine — how could one possibly eat here?' The king answered, 'One could not.' He asked, 'And now?' The king answered, 'Now one could.' Aṅgulimāla said: 'Before I had seen the Buddha, I served that wicked sorcery, and my mind dwelt on it, my mouth spoke it, my body acted it out in every wicked way — the corrupting influence of that wicked path was filthier even than this latrine once was. Filth from without can be washed away, but defilement within is hard to remove; thanks to the blessing of past lives, I was born in the very age of the Buddha, and, bathed in his pure transformation, I have cast off filth and embraced fragrance, pure within and without like a true and heavenly pearl. Whoever has not seen the Buddha, and does not know the four truths of impermanence, observing his own inclinations, is like a madman intoxicated with wine; whoever does not draw close to the worthy assembly, but instead relies on the ten evils, is no different from a jackal or wolf caged together with its own kind.' The king said: 'How excellent! How wondrous is the Buddha's utmost transformation, that it could turn even the stench of a latrine into the fragrance of sandalwood!'" "When he had finished expounding the teaching, he passed through the marketplace on his way, and heard that a woman was suffering a breech birth, her life hanging by a thread. Returning, he reported this exactly as it had happened, and the Buddha said: 'Go and attend to her delivery.' Aṅgulimāla was struck with shame. The World-Honored One said: 'When you approach her, say: "Since the day I was born, I have held a compassionate heart toward all living beings, relieving and benefiting heaven and earth alike" — and mother and child will both be made whole.' Following this instruction, he went, and, proclaiming the Buddha's own grace, mother and child were both delivered safely. Withdrawing and retracing his path, he doubted himself, wondering how he, who had once committed such cruel killing, could now speak of universal compassion, and he bowed his head and questioned the Buddha about this. The Buddha said to Aṅgulimāla: 'For an ordinary person, the day his heart opens to receive the Way may be called the day of his true birth. One who has not yet seen the Three Jewels, who has not yet received the weighty precepts, is like a child still in the womb — though it may have eyes, what could it possibly see? Though it may have ears, what could it possibly hear? This is why it is said such a person has not yet truly been born.' Aṅgulimāla's heart opened at this, and he attained at once the fruit of an arhat." The Buddha said to the monks: "Puṇyaraśmi of that time was I myself. In a former life I gave him the four verses that saved a hundred kings at once; now I have brought him to attain the Way, and he no longer bears his grave transgression. Aṅgulimāla, in a past life, had once been a monk who carried a bushel of rice to a temple, and, on top of it, made an offering of a single knife, and, rejoicing, praised the Honored One, bowed his head, and departed. Carrying the rice earned him great strength; offering the knife earned him great treasure; his rejoicing earned him fine features; his praise of the Honored One earned him kingship; his bow of reverence is why he was later bowed to by the people of his kingdom. That ninety-nine people poked his head, and this led at last to the loss of his own life — this is why he later killed his former enemies and cut off their fingers in turn. When the next set of people wished to poke his own head, they saw he had already died, and, seeing instead the monk, felt only compassion arise. That later generation was, in fact, his own mother, who at first held wicked intent; and so Aṅgulimāla's own first intentions were wicked as well. But seeing the monk, his compassion grew; and so, seeing the Buddha, he became filial. A pure seed yields a pure result; a mixed seed yields a mixed result; good and evil, once set in motion, are pursued by their own fortune and misfortune, following as surely as a shadow follows a form or an echo answers a sound — there is always a cause behind it, never mere chance. That monk had made this vow: 'May you meet the Buddha, and attain the Way' — and exactly as he wished, so it came to pass. To make offerings to the Three Jewels, even in the smallest measure, no greater than a single strand of hair; for a monk, with a compassionate incantation, to make a vow on behalf of the one who gives — such a vow, exactly as spoken, will be fulfilled, without a single exception." This is how the bodhisattva, holding to his resolve, practicing the boundless perfection of moral precepts, kept the precepts.