Mishrakeshi. The poor fellow never saw her beauty. His eyes are useless, for she never came before them.
King. Which one do you think?
Clown (observing closely). I think it is this one, leaning against the creeper which she has just sprinkled. Her face is hot and the flowers are dropping from her hair; for the ribbon is loosened. Her arms droop like weary branches; she has loosened her girdle, and she seems a little fatigued. This, I think, is the lady Shakuntala, the others are her friends.
King. You are good at guessing. Besides, here are proofs of my love.
See where discolorations faint
Of loving handling tell;
And here the swelling of the paint
Shows where my sad tears fell.
Chaturika, I have not finished the background. Go, get the brushes.
Maid. Please hold the picture, Madhavya, while I am gone.
King. I will hold it. (He does so. Exit maid.)
Clown. What are you going to add?
Mishrakeshi. Surely, every spot that the dear girl loved.