[119.90. S.
[Enter the courtier, carrying a sword, and Sansthānaka.]
Sansthānaka. Shtop, you confounded monk, shtop! I'll pound your head like a red radish[77] at a drinking party. [He strikes him.]
Courtier. You jackass, you should not strike a monk who wears the yellow robes of renunciation. Why heed him? Look rather upon this garden, which offers itself to pleasure.
To creatures else forlorn, the forest trees
Do works of mercy, granting joy and ease;
Like a sinner's heart, the park unguarded lies,
Like some new-founded realm, an easy prize.4
Monk. Heaven bless you! Be merciful, servant of the Blessèd One!
Sansthānaka. Did you hear that, shir? He's inshulting me.
Courtier. What does he say?
Sansthānaka. Shays I'm a shervant. What do you take me for? a barber?