Vidyāpati exclaims: What are these gestes,
To set such store upon a green pomegranate?
XLV.
Rādhā: You are that Banamāli that did slay Chānur:
This tender woman is the shirīsh-flower.
O cruel messenger that made this war,
And gave a jasmine-garland to an olifant!
No longer does the sūrm paint my eyes,
And wet with sweat are musk and sandal:
O wounded Mādhav, I beseech you,
Do not offer up my life upon the altar of Desire!
O Hari, Hari, let your purpose be
To spare my life until another day.
Give Love his due, impatient lover!
Says Vidyāpati: Your wish shall be accomplished.
XLVI.
Sakhī: Amorous the swain, and little is his darling:
If hands be laid on her, how many are her wiles!
With what entreaties and persuasions have the maidens led her
To her lover's house, and laid her on his bed!
With face averted, lying closely curled,
(For who may turn the tide when passion flows?)
She hides her face beneath the wimple,—
The frightened moon escaping from the storm.
No word comes out, she hears nought that is said,
Repeatedly she folds her hands imploringly:
With covering arms she guards the treasures of her life,—
She needs no bodice to enfold her breasts.
Insistently from sight and touch alike
She keeps her jewels hidden in the granary of Love,—
A matter for her maidens' mocking many days,
Now learning her the lore of Love.