Māth.
O maiden, fair but something less than shy,
With red lip wounded in love's ardent play,
On whom is bent that sweet, coquettish eye?
For whom that lisp that steals the heart away?16
I haven't got any money. You'll have to look somewhere else.
Madanikā. You are certainly no gambler, if you talk that way. Is there any one who owes you money?
Māthura. There is. He owes ten gold-pieces. What of him?
Madanikā. In his behalf my mistress sends you this bracelet. No, no! He sends it himself.
Māthura. [Seizing it joyfully.] Well, well, you may tell the noble youth that his account is squared. Let him come and seek delight again in gambling.[Exeunt Māthura and the gambler.
Madanikā. [Returning to Vasantasenā.] Mistress, the gambling-master and the gambler have gone away well-pleased.
Vasantasenā. Go, sir, and comfort your kinsfolk.