MÁTHAVYA.—If that's the case, she must indeed throw all other beauties into the shade.
KING.—To my mind she really does.
This peerless maid is like a fragrant flower,
Whose perfumed breath has never been diffused;
A tender bud, that no profaning hand
Has dared to sever from its parent stalk;
A gem of priceless water, just released
Pure and unblemished from its glittering bed.
Or may the maiden haply be compared
To sweetest honey, that no mortal lip
Has sipped; or, rather to the mellowed fruit
Of virtuous actions in some former birth,
Now brought to full perfection? Lives the man
Whom bounteous heaven has destined to espouse her?
MÁTHAVYA.—Make haste, then, to her aid; you have no time to lose, if you don't wish this fruit of all the virtues to drop into the mouth of some greasy-headed rustic of devout habits.
KING.—The lady is not her own mistress, and her foster-father is not at home.
MÁTHAVYA.—Well, but tell me, did she look at all kindly upon you?
KING.—Maidens brought up in a hermitage are naturally shy and reserved; but for all that,
She did look towards me, though she quick withdrew
Her stealthy glances when she met my gaze;
She smiled upon me sweetly, but disguised
With maiden grace the secret of her smiles.
Coy love was half unveiled; then, sudden checked
By modesty, left half to be divined.
MÁTHAVYA.—Why, of course, my dear friend, you never could seriously expect that at the very first sight she would fall over head and ears in love with you, and without more ado come and sit in your lap.
KING.—When we parted from each other, she betrayed her liking for me by clearer indications, but still with the utmost modesty.