Mádh. Oh! certainly, whatever a king admires must be superlatively charming.
Dushm. [Smiling.] What need is there of long description? When I meditate on the power of Brahmà, and on her lineaments, the creation of so transcendent a jewel outshines, in my apprehension, all his other works: she was formed and moulded in the eternal mind, which had raised with its utmost exertion, the ideas of perfect shapes, and thence made an assemblage of all abstract beauties.
Mádh. She must render, then, all other handsome women contemptible.
Dushm. In my mind she really does. I know not yet what blessed inhabitant of this world will be the possessor of that faultless beauty, which now resembles a blossom whose fragrance has not been diffused; a fresh leaf, which no hand has torn from its stalk; a pure diamond, which no polisher has handled; new honey, whose sweetness is yet untasted; or rather the celestial fruit of collected virtues, to the perfection of which nothing can be added.
Mádh. Make haste, then, or the fruit of all virtues will drop into the hand of some devout rustick, whose hair shines with oil of Ingudì.
Dushm. She is not her own mistress; and her foster-father is at a distance.
Mádh. How is she disposed towards you?
Dushm. My friend, the damsels in a hermit's family are naturally reserved: yet she did look
