# I and Pangur Bán, each of us two at his special art:
his mind at hunting (mice), my own mind is in my special craft.
# I love to rest—better than any fame—at my booklet with diligent science:
not envious of me is Pangur Bán: he himself loves his childish art.
# When we are—tale without tedium—in our house, we two alone,
we have—unlimited (is) feat-sport—something to which to apply our acuteness.
# It is customary at times by feat of valour, that a mouse sticks in his net,
and for me there falls into my net a difficult dictum with hard meaning.
# His eye, this glancing full one, he points against the wall-fence:
I myself against the keenness of science point my clear eye, though it is very feeble.
# He is joyous with speedy going where a mouse sticks in his sharp-claw:
I too am joyous, where I understand a difficult dear question.
# Though we are thus always, neither hinders the other:
each of us two likes his art, amuses himself alone.
# He himself is the master of the work which he does every day:
while I am at my own work, (which is) to bring difficulty to clearness.