King. Listen, my friend.
The stream of Malini, and on its sands
The swan-pairs resting; holy foot-hill lands
Of great Himalaya's sacred ranges, where
The yaks are seen; and under trees that bear
Bark hermit-dresses on their branches high,
A doe that on the buck's horn rubs her eye.
Clown (aside). To hear him talk, I should think he was going to fill up the picture with heavy-bearded hermits.
King. And another ornament that Shakuntala loved I have forgotten to paint.
Clown. What?
Mishrakeshi. Something natural for a girl living in the forest.
King.
The siris-blossom, fastened o'er her ear,
Whose stamens brush her cheek;
The lotus-chain like autumn moonlight soft
Upon her bosom meek.
Clown. But why does she cover her face with fingers lovely as the pink water-lily? She seems frightened. (He looks more closely.) I see. Here is a bold, bad bee. He steals honey, and so he flies to her lotus-face.
King. Drive him away.