And now that I, while more sober I grow,
Am against this toying inveighing,
I feel that I’m still as wretched as though
A comedy still I were playing.
Alas! unconsciously and in jest
Of my feelings was I the narrator;
And I’ve play’d, with my own death in my breast,
The dying gladiator.
47.
The monarch Wiswamitra,
Is restlessly striving now;
He must needs, by fighting and penance,
Obtain Wasischta’s cow.
O monarch Wiswamitra,
O what an ox art thou,
To have all this fighting and penance,
And all for nought but a cow!
48.
Let not grief, my heart, come o’er thee
Bear thy lot with faith unshaken,
For what winter may have taken
Will returning spring restore thee.
And how much remaineth over!
And how fair the world is still!
And, my heart, if ’tis thy will,
Thou of All mayst be the lover!
49.
A flow’ret thou resemblest,
So pure and fair and blest;
But when I view thee, sorrow
Straight creepeth to my breast.