Fasht to my head the heated shun-beam clings;
Birds, flying creatures, alsho wingèd things
Resht in the branches of the trees, while men,
People, and pershons shigh and shigh again;
At home they tarry, in their houses shtay,
To bear the heat and burden of the day.12
Well, shir, that shervant is n't here yet. I 'm going to shing shomething to passh the time. [He sings.] There, shir, did you hear what I shang?
Courtier. What shall I say? Ah, how melodious!
[116.23. S.
Sansthānaka. Why should n't it be malodorous?
Of nut-grass and cumin I make up a pickle,
Of devil's-dung, ginger, and orris, and treacle;
That's the mixture of perfumes I eagerly eat;
Why should n't my voice be remarkably shweet?13
Well, shir, I 'm jusht going to shing again, [He does so.] There, shir, did you hear what I shang?
Courtier. What shall I say? Ah, how melodious!
Sansthānaka. Why should n't it be malodorous?
Of the flesh of the cuckoo I make up a chowder,
With devil's-dung added, and black pepper powder;
With oil and with butter I shprinkle the meat:
Why should n't my voice be remarkably shweet?14