Dushm. Friend Mádhavya, your eyes have not been gratified with an object which best deserves to be seen.
Mádh. Yes, truly; for a king is before them.
Dushm. All men are apt, indeed, to think favourably of themselves; but I meant Sacontalá, the brightest ornament of these woods.
Mádh. [Aside.] I must not foment this passion.—[Aloud.] What can you gain by seeing her? She is a Bráhmen's daughter, and consequently no match for you!
Dushm. What! Do people gaze at the new moon, with uplifted heads and fixed eyes, from a hope of possessing it? But you must know, that the heart of Dushmanta is not fixed on an object which he must for ever dispair of attaining.
Mádh. Tell me how.
Dushm. She is the daughter of a pious prince and warriour, by a celestial nymph; and, her mother having left her on earth, she has been fostered by Canna, even as a fresh blossom of Malati, which droops on its pendant stalk, is raised and expanded by the sun's tight.
Mádh. [Laughing.] You desire to possess this rustic girl, when you have women bright as gems in your palace already, is like the fancy of a man, who has lost his relish for dates, and longs for the sour tamarind.
Dushm. Did you know her, you would not talk so wildly.
