And when the damsel had this comfort,
She raised herself again, and sighed no more.
Murāri went his way, when Rāi was soothed—
Vidyāpati refrains from words!
XCV.
Dūtika: Mādhava, O moon-face,
Never can you have known the sting of separation!
Hearing you are departed to another land, she wastes away:
O wretched Rāi, bereft of wit by force of love!
Refusing even buds of flowers, she lies exhausted on the ground,
The calling of the koil fills her with fear,
Her tears have washed the beauty-spots away,
Her wasted arms let slip their ornaments.
With hanging head Rādhā regards her throat,
Now are her fingers raw with writing on the ground:
Says Vidyāpati: Recollecting all his ways,
And taking count of them, she fainted.
XCVI.
Rādhā: A sorry end to all my love, my dear,
To let my life depend upon a wanton,—
Nowhere to look for help!
I could not see the hidden well,
But as I ran, I fell therein:
At first I nowise knew the heavy from the light,—
Now would I might return!
His honey-speech I understood for love,
At first I knew no better:
I yielded all my skill into another's hands,
Pride had fled afar my heart.
Till now I led another way of life,
But now I know what drowning is:
I with my own hands sharped the stake,
Whom can I blame now?