a man, and I don't even take a bath. And here you bring your shtinking clothes, all shtained with shtale bean-porridge, and wash 'em! I think one good shtroke will finish you.
Courtier. You jackass, I am sure he has not long been a monk.
Sansthānaka. How can you tell, shir?
Courtier. It doesn't take much to tell that. See!
His hair is newly shorn; the brow still white;
The rough cloak has not yet the shoulder scarred;
He wears it awkwardly; it clings not tight;
And here above, the fit is sadly marred. 5
Monk. True, servant of the Blessèd One. I have been a monk but a short time.
Sansthānaka. Then why haven't you been one all your life? [He beats him.]
Monk. Buddha be praised!
Courtier. Stop beating the poor fellow. Leave him alone. Let him go.
Sansthānaka. Jusht wait a minute, while I take counshel.
Courtier. With whom?
Sansthānaka. With my own heart.
Courtier. Poor fellow! Why didn't he escape?
Sansthānaka. Blesshèd little heart, my little shon and mashter, shall the monk go, or shall the monk shtay? [To himself.] Neither go, nor shtay. [Aloud.] Well, shir, I took counshel with my heart, and my heart shays—
Courtier. Says what?
Sansthānaka. He shall neither go, nor shtay. He shall neither breathe up, nor breathe down. He shall fall down right here and die, before you can shay "boo."
Monk. Buddha be praised! I throw myself upon your protection.
Courtier. Let him go.
