Śankhachúda.
O mother, it is indeed as you say. Would that the Prince might be saved!
Jímútaváhana (speaking as though in agony).
Ah! oh! These joint-racking pangs were not felt by me before, through the excess of pleasure, which I felt in doing good to another, but now they begin to hem me round.
King (with agitation).
Alas! my son, why this posture?
Queen.
Alas! alas! Why does he talk thus? (Beating her breast.) Help! help! My child is dying!
Malayavatí.
Ah! my husband, you appear in a hurry to leave us.
Jímútaváhana (trying to place his hands together).
O Śankhachúda! place my hands together.
Śankhachúda (doing so).
Alas! the world is robbed of its master.
Jímútaváhana (half opening his eyes,
and looking at his father).
O father, O mother! This is my last salutation. These limbs retain no consciousness—my ear hears no sound, however distinct the articulation—alas! my eye
