She lay outstretched on the grassy ground,
Her body was wasted with love,
As if with a touchstone the Lord of Five Arrows
Had proved a streak of gold.
The orb of her face lay low in the dust—
(More lovely it seemed therefor):
The moon in fear of Rāhu had fallen down on the floor—
(Such was the fashion of my delusion).
What can I say of the pangs of disunion?
Hearken, most cruel Kānu:
Vidyāpati says: She is of good fame,—
You know that her life is in danger.
CXXI.
Dūtikā: Mādhava, lo, I have seen your lovely Rāi,—
Her gaze is fixed like a painted puppet's,
Friends surround her on every side,
Exceeding faint is the breath of her nostrils.
Exceeding thin is her corse, like a streak of gold,
(None that beholds it believes it hers),
Bracelets and bangles fall from either wrist,
Her hair untressed, her head unhidden.
I cannot solve these sentiments and swoons,—
Fiercely the fever of longing scorches her relentlessly.
Vidyāpati says: Her loveless body
Has abandoned now all love on earth.
CXXII.
Dūtika: Mādhava, prithee, visit yonder babe:
To-day or to-morrow she is like to die,
Such burning love she bears!
Refreshing water, lotus-leaves upon her bed,
Or ointment of sandal-paste,
Each and all are flames of fire;
The moon with tenfold heat annoys.