Me, even me by Fate betrayed,
Who come, a suppliant, sore distressed,
One grace, O Hermit, to request.
No other hope or way I see:
No other refuge waits for me.
Oh, aid me in my fallen state,
And human will shall conquer Fate.”
Canto LIX. The Sons Of Vasishtha.
Then Kuśik's son, by pity warmed,