ŚAKOONTALÁ.—This way, my dear companions; this way.
ANASÚYÁ.—Dear Śakoontalá, one would think that father Kanwa had more affection for the shrubs of the hermitage even than for you, seeing he assigns to you who are yourself as delicate as the fresh-blown jasmine, the task of filling with water the trenches which encircle their roots.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Dear Anasúyá, although I am charged by my good father with this duty, yet I cannot regard it as a task. I really feel a sisterly love for these plants.
[Continues watering the shrubs.
KING.—Can this be the daughter of Kanwa? The saintly man, though descended from the great Kaśyapa, must be very deficient in judgment to habituate such a maiden to the life of a recluse.
The sage who would this form of artless grace
Inure to penance—thoughtlessly attempts
To cleave in twain the hard acacia's stem
With the soft edge of a blue lotus leaf.
Well! concealed behind this tree, I will watch her without raising her suspicions. [Conceals himself.
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Good Anasúyá, Priyamvadá has drawn this bark-dress too tightly about my chest. I pray thee, loosen it a little.
ANASÚYÁ.—I will. [Loosens it.
PRIYAMVADÁ [smiling].—Why do you lay the blame on me? Blame rather your own blooming youthfulness which imparts fulness to your bosom.
KING.—A most just observation!