Sakhī: Ah damsel fair! in dalliance is no delight,
For Madan wounds the heart with double pains.
The maidens all together setting her by Kānu's side,
The damsel breathes in frightened gasps:
When Kānu lifts her to his lap, she bends her body back,
Like the young snake, untamed by spells.
'But shut your eyes this once, my fair one,
As a sick man drinks his draught:
A little moment's pain, and then the birth of bliss,—
Why do you turn your face away from this, my girl?'
Hearken, Murāri, saith Vidyāpati:
You are the ocean of desire, and she is artless.
XXXVII.
Rādhā: How can I tell of what was done that night?
Unhappily the hours were spent with Mādhava:
He clasped my breasts and drank the nectar of my lips,
Laying his face on mine, he killed my life.
(First youth, and hence this pouring out of passion:
So rash is Kān,—he has no skill in love).
Madan-maddened, nothing recking,
He would not heed how many prayers!
Hearken, Lady fair, says Vidyāpati:
You are but artless, and Murāri is athirst.
XXXVIII.
Rādhā: What can I say, my sakhī? It is shame to tell
All that my Lover did imperiously;
A young thing I, unlearned in lore of love,—
It was the messenger that led me to his side.