LXI.
Dūtikā: He who was wont to wanton with a flute, has cast away his jewels,
He who was wont to wear a yellow weed, now grovels at your feet,—
There was a time your eyes would overflow, might you not see him.
Now you will not so much as look upon his face!
Beauty, abandon your bitter mood.
Lusty Kānu is praying at your feet:
By happy hap this amorous Shyām is yours.
By happy hap the tide of spring,—
By happy hap this love's attainment,
By happy hap this blissful night,—
Damsel disdainful, will you forsake your Krishna's body,
And spend your life henceforth in lonely weeping?
These be love's ways, says Vidyāpati,—
Yet prayer's denial deserves no praise.
LXII.
Dūtikā: One little moment of a day you keep your youth,—
The days are floating by:
Evil and good, these two will travel at your side,—
The only final gain is what you give to others.
Beauty, you have had part in killing Hari,
All day and night he thinks of only you,—
This is his hour of separation!
In sorrow's sea he swims or sinks,—
Show him your globéd breasts:
O worthy fair one, Gokula's Lord preserve,
And win the praise of the Triple Worlds!
Of a myriad lovers, whosoever looks on Kāna,
Deems that day is blest:
Frenzied is Hari by reason of your fury
The poet Vidyāpati avows.
LXIII.
Rādhā: You shall not tell me otherwise, my dear:
Little by little I came to know him better,
That Kānu is so cunning.
He made a sweetmeat of some knotty wood,
By smearing treacle on it:
Filling with poison a golden jar,
He added a layer of milk!
Yet surely Kān is good, and I am bad,
Because his words beguile me:
In heart and speech He is the same,
Matchless amidst a myriad.
The same flower that you cast away, the same you use in prayer.
And with the same you string the bow:
Such is the quality of Kānu s speech.
The poet Vidyāpati avows.