XXVI.
Sakhī: Hearken, hearken, O virtuous Rādhā:
Murdering Mādhava, what is the good you will gain?
By day the moon is pale and lonely,
Likewise he waxes thinner and thinner:
His rings and bracelets slip,—
I think he must remake them many times.
I cannot understand your ways;
The poet rests his head upon his hands!