XXXII.
Rādhā: Leave me, dear maid, I pray you,—
I will not go whereas he is:
Nought do I know the skill of words,
Or art of signs, nor how to pretend offense.
All of my friends arraying me at once,—
I cannot even bind my own hair!
I never have heard what dalliance means,
How may I mix with Mādhava?
He is learned in love, a passionate swain,
And I a weak girl of scanty wisdom.
Says Vidyāpati: What counsel do I give?
'Tis that there should be union.
PRATHAMA MILNA
XXXIII.
Dūtika: Hearken, hearken, beautiful Kānāi:
I give the maiden Rādhā to your care,
A lotus-damsel, softly-wrought,
And thirstier bee than you.
The feast of honey is prepared,—
Only forget the Archer's cruelty,
Touching her bosom gently
As an olifant a lily.
Making excuse to count her necklace pearls,
Your hands may lift the burden of her breasts:
She does not understand the ways of love,
But now consents, and now refuses.
The shirīsh-flower is not more delicate than she, therefore
Inure her to the Archer's way by little steps,—
The poet Vidyāpati lays down
This prayer of a messenger upon your feet.