ANASÚYÁ.—How so?
PRIYAMVADÁ.—Did you not observe how the King betrayed his liking by the tender manner in which he gazed upon her, and how thin he has become the last few days, as if he had been lying awake thinking of her?
KING [looking at himself].—Quite true! I certainly am becoming thin from want of sleep:—
As night by night in anxious thought I raise
This wasted arm to rest my sleepless head,
My jewelled bracelet, sullied by the tears
That trickle from my eyes in scalding streams,
Slips towards my elbow from my shrivelled wrist.
Oft I replace the bauble, but in vain;
So easily it spans the fleshless limb
That e'en the rough and corrugated skin,
Scarred by the bow-string, will not check its fall.
PRIYAMVADÁ [thoughtfully].—An idea strikes me, Anasúyá. Let Śakoontalá write a love-letter; I will conceal it in a flower, and contrive to drop it in the King's path. He will surely mistake it for the remains of some sacred offering, and will, in all probability, pick it up.
ANASÚYÁ.—A very ingenious device! It has my entire approval; but what says Śakoontalá?
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—I must consider before I can consent to it.
PRIYAMVADÁ.—Could you not, dear Śakoontalá, think of some pretty composition in verse, containing a delicate declaration of your love?
ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Well, I will do my best; but my heart trembles when I think of the chances of a refusal.
KING [