honey, wast wont to kiss the soft border of the new-blown Amra flower, how canst thou now be satisfied with the water lily, and forget the first object of thy love?"
Dushm. The ditty breathes a tender passion.
Mádh. Does the king know its meaning? It is too deep for me.
Dushm. [Smiling.] I was once in love with Hansamatì, and am now reproved for continuing so long absent from her.—Friend Mádhavya, inform the queen in my name that I feel the reproof.
Mádh. As the king commands; but———[Rising slowly.]—My friend, you are going to seize a sharp lance with another man's hand. I cannot relish your commission to an enraged woman.—A hermit cannot be happy till he has taken leave of all passions whatever.
Dushm. Go, my kind friend; the urbanity of thy discourse will appease her.
Mádh. What an errand! [He goes out.
Dushm. [Aside.] Ah! what makes me so melancholy on hearing a mere song on absence, when I am not in fact separated from any real object of my affection?—Perhaps the sadness of men, otherwise happy, on seeing beautiful forms and listening to sweet melody, arises from some faint remembrance of past joys and the traces of connections in a former state of existence.
