XLIV.
Rādhā: You that are skilled in passion's lore have pity on my shame,—
I will forsake it when my youth increases:
My little savour cannot satisfy you now,
The little draught will not suffice to slake your thirst.
Would you but take it drop by drop,
Daily increasing like the digit of the moon!
These little breasts of mine will hardly fill your hands as yet,—
O Hari, do not wound them with your nails, be wise in love.
Vidyāpati exclaims: What are these gestes,
To set such store upon a green pomegranate?
XLV.
Rādhā: You are that Banamāli that did slay Chānur:
This tender woman is the shirīsh-flower.
O cruel messenger that made this war,
And gave a jasmine-garland to an olifant!
No longer does the sūrm paint my eyes,
And wet with sweat are musk and sandal:
O wounded Mādhav, I beseech you,
Do not offer up my life upon the altar of Desire!
O Hari, Hari, let your purpose be
To spare my life until another day.
Give Love his due, impatient lover!
Says Vidyāpati: Your wish shall be accomplished.
XLVI.
Sakhī: Amorous the swain, and little is his darling:
If hands be laid on her, how many are her wiles!
With what entreaties and persuasions have the maidens led her
To her lover's house, and laid her on his bed!
With face averted, lying closely curled,
(For who may turn the tide when passion flows?)
She hides her face beneath the wimple,—
The frightened moon escaping from the storm.
No word comes out, she hears nought that is said,
Repeatedly she folds her hands imploringly:
With covering arms she guards the treasures of her life,—
She needs no bodice to enfold her breasts.
Insistently from sight and touch alike
She keeps her jewels hidden in the granary of Love,—
A matter for her maidens' mocking many days,
Now learning her the lore of Love.
Vidyāpati finds great delight herein:
For at a sudden touch, she pushes out her hand!
XLVII.
Sakhī: Enough! and cast the trouble from your heart.
Be not afraid, go to your lover's side:
Have done with obstinacy, for I tell you
Never can be joy without its pain.
But half a grain of grief, and then a life of gladness
Why are you so averse to this, my girl?
Just for a moment shut your eyes,
As a sick man drinks his draught.
Go, Beauty, go, and play loves game,
Vidyāpati prays for your consent.
XLVIII.
Rādhā: O Hari, if you will insist on touching me,
The sin of murdering a wife will fall on you:
You are a guileful lover full of passion
I know not whether it be sweet or bitter.
When passion is outpoured, I shiver
Like an arrow-smitten bounding antelope:
O do not realise your hopes before the time,—
Savour is never lacking to the wise man's end.
Vidyāpati says: I see it clear,
That honeyed fruit is never green.