XCI.
Kavi: Shyāma is drunk with Madan's drowsy wine,
With smiles he takes the moon-face on his lap—
Wanton glances, gentle laughter,
Leaning of limbs, amorous murmuring.
Amorous she, and passionate Kān,
Heart upon heart, face on face,
Both are drunken, both are archers:
Such song of love shapes Vidyāpati.
XCII.
Rādhā: If you would have my love, O Mādhava
Make Madan witness to this document:
'You will abandon dalliance 'neath the kadamb,
You will have no more regard to parents.
Even in dreams you will see only me,
And never drink but to my eyes,
Night and day will sing my praise,
And take no other maiden on your lap.'
When I shall have such covenant in hand,
Then I will speak of love with you!
Hearken, brave Kān, to Vidyāpatis advice,—
Preserve your dignity even at cost of life!
XCIII.
Rādhā: Like to the tool that trims the jewels of her toes,
Gokula's darling grovelled on the ground:
Unceasing tears were flowing down his face,
How many ways my love besought me!
O evil day! for I was proud,—
And now my brazen heart declines to die!
Who would have thought black wrath could be so dangerous,
Or that a jewel could be changed to clay?
I have been luckless in my woman's lot:
My refuge is in death, I was too proud!
Hearken, lady Rāi, says Vidyāpati:
I shall explain the reason of your weeping.
ĀKSHEPA ANUYOGA O VIRAHA
XCIV.
Sakhī: The mournful beauty, gazing on Kānu's face,
Was sobbing loud with brimming eyes:
The peerless moon-face, when he said 'Farewell,'
Fell fey upon the ground, with cries of 'Hari, Hari!'
How distractedly did Hari comfort her,—
'Now I shall not go to Mathura':
When this sweet sound reached her ears,
The lovesick nymph revived.
And taking Kānu's hands in hers.
She lifted them to touch her head:
'Say unmistakeably, good Kān, my lord,
'I will not go to Mathura.''
And when the damsel had this comfort,
She raised herself again, and sighed no more.
Murāri went his way, when Rāi was soothed—
Vidyāpati refrains from words!
XCV.
Dūtika: Mādhava, O moon-face,
Never can you have known the sting of separation!
Hearing you are departed to another land, she wastes away:
O wretched Rāi, bereft of wit by force of love!
Refusing even buds of flowers, she lies exhausted on the ground,
The calling of the koil fills her with fear,
Her tears have washed the beauty-spots away,
Her wasted arms let slip their ornaments.
With hanging head Rādhā regards her throat,
Now are her fingers raw with writing on the ground:
Says Vidyāpati: Recollecting all his ways,
And taking count of them, she fainted.