Dūtika:       Hearken, hearken, beautiful Kānāi:
I give the maiden Rādhā to your care,
A lotus-damsel, softly-wrought,
And thirstier bee than you.

The feast of honey is prepared,—
Only forget the Archer's cruelty,
Touching her bosom gently
As an olifant a lily.

Making excuse to count her necklace pearls,
Your hands may lift the burden of her breasts:
She does not understand the ways of love,
But now consents, and now refuses.

The shirīsh-flower is not more delicate than she, therefore
Inure her to the Archer's way by little steps,—
The poet Vidyāpati lays down
This prayer of a messenger upon your feet.

XXXIV.

Sakhī:        When first the damsel to her leman came,
Her heart beat fast with shame and fear:
Like to a golden image, Rādhā stood quite still,
Nor moving forward, nor returning.

Taking her hands, he sets her by his side,
And she in shame and anger veils her face:
When he unfolds her face and kisses her upon her mouth,
She hides the shamefast face in Mādhav's breast.

This is the merry song of Vidyāpati the poet,
Delighting Rājā Shivasimha's heart.

XXXV.

Sakhī:         The sakhī soothed her fears, and led her lovingly,—
Her leman's heart was gladdened, he took her by the hand:
But Rādhā paled at Kānu's touch,
A lotus fading in the moon's embrace.

She cries: Oh no, no, no! and tears are pouring from her eyes,
She lies outstretched upon the margin of the bed,
His close embrace has not unloosed her zone,—
Even of handling of her breasts has been but little.

She lifts the wimple up to hide her face,
She cannot rest, but trembles through and through.
Says Vidyāpati: The heart of it is patience:
Step by step may Madan claim his own.

Sakhī:         Ah damsel fair! in dalliance is no delight,
For Madan wounds the heart with double pains.

The maidens all together setting her by Kānu's side,
The damsel breathes in frightened gasps:
When Kānu lifts her to his lap, she bends her body back,
Like the young snake, untamed by spells.

'But shut your eyes this once, my fair one,
As a sick man drinks his draught:
A little moment's pain, and then the birth of bliss,—
Why do you turn your face away from this, my girl?'

Hearken, Murāri, saith Vidyāpati:
You are the ocean of desire, and she is artless.

Rādhā:        How can I tell of what was done that night?
Unhappily the hours were spent with Mādhava:
He clasped my breasts and drank the nectar of my lips,
Laying his face on mine, he killed my life.

(First youth, and hence this pouring out of passion:
So rash is Kān,—he has no skill in love).
Madan-maddened, nothing recking,
He would not heed how many prayers!

Hearken, Lady fair, says Vidyāpati:
You are but artless, and Murāri is athirst.

Rādhā:        What can I say, my sakhī? It is shame to tell
All that my Lover did imperiously;
A young thing I, unlearned in lore of love,—
It was the messenger that led me to his side.

My body shivered at the sight of him,
So fierce he was to fall on me,
I lost my wits in his embrace:
How can I tell what amorous play he played?

In everything my Lord behaved ungently,
How can I speak of it amongst my friends?
Why ask of it, who know it all too well?
Happy is she whom he may not distress!

Fear not, says Vidyāpati:
Such is the fashion of first dalliance.

Rādhā:        Do not urge me, dearest maiden, do not urge.
What can I do, if he should soothe my fears?
Few are my years, for I am not so old as Kānu,—
I am too shamefast and too tender.

Cruel Hari played with me impatiently,
How can I tell how many woes the night bestowed?
Passion flamed up, I lost my wits,—
Who knows when he broke my girdle?

He held me close, with pinioned arms,
And then my heart was beating wildly;
I let him see my streaming eyes,
But even then Kānu had no pity.

My wicked lover parched my lips—
Abetted by the night, Rahu devoured the moon;
He tore my twin breasts with his nails,
Just as a lion tears an elephant.

Ah amorous woman, says Vidyāpati,—
You knew full well Murāri was aflame!

Sakhī:         Shyāma sitting in his pride
Speaks of the night's delights:
'She is the beauteous sweet-faced Rāi,
With rapture I received her in my inmost heart.

'How many ways she kissed me,
Laughing light and low in gladness,
Diversely disporting,
My dream of delight.

'How nectar-sweet her words,
Eyebrows arching, wanton glances,
Damsel waking in my heart's core.'
This is first love, says Vidyāpati.

XLI.

Rādhā:        O maiden, dearest maiden, do not lead me to him,
Too young am I, and he is a burning lover:
My heart is shaken, going to his side,—
The amorous bee will spring upon the lotus.

The muslin hides my harmless body
Like wimpling waters of a lily-lake:
Oh Mother mine, how creatures suffer pain!
What Power shaped the wicked Night?

Says Vidyāpati: What is befitting now?
Who cannot tell when it is dawn?

Sakhī:         Her gentle words she can but stammer,
Her shamefast speech will not well out:
To-day I found her most contrary,
Sometimes consenting, sometimes fearful.

At any word of dalliance, she tightly shuts her eyes,
For she has caught a glimpse of the great sea of Love:
At kissing-time she turns her face away,—
The moon has taken the lotus on his lap!

Stricken with terror if her zone be touched, the shining maiden
Knows that Madan's treasury is being rifled.
Her clothes are disarrayed, she hides her bosom with her arms,—
The jewels are exposed, and yet she knots her garment!

What is Vidyāpati to think, forsooth?
For at the moment of embrace, she flies the bed!

XLIII.

Rādhā:       Oh Hari, Why do you seek to loose my girdle?
You shall not win your will:
I cannot tell what pleasure there can be in seeing me,
But now I know your guile, O Banamāli!

If you will listen to my plea, Murāri,
I shall abuse you only very gently:
Sufficed with dalliance, what need for sight?
My soul may not endure it.

Never has like been heard,
While lamps are lit, to play with me:
The people of the house will hear our very breath!
Deal with me gently, for the people of the house are very near.

This savour Vidyāpati knoweth well,—
Rājā Shivasimha and Lakshmī Devī be witness!

XLIV.

Rādhā:        You that are skilled in passion's lore have pity on my shame,—
I will forsake it when my youth increases:
My little savour cannot satisfy you now,
The little draught will not suffice to slake your thirst.

Would you but take it drop by drop,
Daily increasing like the digit of the moon!
These little breasts of mine will hardly fill your hands as yet,—
O Hari, do not wound them with your nails, be wise in love.

Vidyāpati exclaims: What are these gestes,
To set such store upon a green pomegranate?

Rādhā:        You are that Banamāli that did slay Chānur:
This tender woman is the shirīsh-flower.
O cruel messenger that made this war,
And gave a jasmine-garland to an olifant!

No longer does the sūrm paint my eyes,
And wet with sweat are musk and sandal:
O wounded Mādhav, I beseech you,
Do not offer up my life upon the altar of Desire!

O Hari, Hari, let your purpose be
To spare my life until another day.
Give Love his due, impatient lover!
Says Vidyāpati: Your wish shall be accomplished.

Sakhī:         Amorous the swain, and little is his darling:
If hands be laid on her, how many are her wiles!
With what entreaties and persuasions have the maidens led her
To her lover's house, and laid her on his bed!

With face averted, lying closely curled,
(For who may turn the tide when passion flows?)
She hides her face beneath the wimple,—
The frightened moon escaping from the storm.

No word comes out, she hears nought that is said,
Repeatedly she folds her hands imploringly:
With covering arms she guards the treasures of her life,—
She needs no bodice to enfold her breasts.

Insistently from sight and touch alike
She keeps her jewels hidden in the granary of Love,—
A matter for her maidens' mocking many days,
Now learning her the lore of Love.

Vidyāpati finds great delight herein:
For at a sudden touch, she pushes out her hand!

Sakhī:         Enough! and cast the trouble from your heart.
Be not afraid, go to your lover's side:
Have done with obstinacy, for I tell you
Never can be joy without its pain.

But half a grain of grief, and then a life of gladness
Why are you so averse to this, my girl?
Just for a moment shut your eyes,
As a sick man drinks his draught.

Go, Beauty, go, and play loves game,
Vidyāpati prays for your consent.

Rādhā:        O Hari, if you will insist on touching me,
The sin of murdering a wife will fall on you:
You are a guileful lover full of passion
I know not whether it be sweet or bitter.

When passion is outpoured, I shiver
Like an arrow-smitten bounding antelope:
O do not realise your hopes before the time,—
Savour is never lacking to the wise man's end.

Vidyāpati says: I see it clear,
That honeyed fruit is never green.

XLIX.

Sakhī:         How to direct the flying arrows of her restless eyes
The Archer-guru teaches her the unfamiliar lesson
(And who would practise uninformed?)

'Oh do not take my life by force!
Toy not with me, O Kānu,—release my skirt;
I am so faint, I fear love's war.

How can my early youth content your will at all?
A little riches cannot satisfy a beggar.
The unblown jasmine of the early spring
Cannot appease the hunger of the lusty bees:
There cannot be a happy ending of a sinful deed—
Be not so rash, when you ought rather hesitate.'

Says Vidyāpati: Oh amorous Kānu!
The maddened elephant heeds not the goad.

L.

Sakhī:        With soft persuasion all the maidens
Led her to her lover's side,
A fawn ensnaréd from the forest
Panting hard.

The sweet-face sits beside the bed
With busily averted looks,
Her mind wide-wandering,—
Love breathing hard.

Cruel is Love, and loveliness is stubborn,
She will not follow reason:
Fast is her girdle knotted, bodice bound,
And barriers before her lips.

Her body closely swathed on neither side
A glimpse revealed,
She yields her life at a hand's touch,—
How may Hari win his will?

Unhappy Kānta lays how many prayers
Upon the maiden's feet,
Hurting her soul (so Rādhā thinks):
Such is the song of Vidyāpati.

Sakhī:         Gainlier than a royal olifant, more graceful than the swan,
She goes to keep her tryst:
Her glorious body far surpasses any golden bud,
Or flawless flash of lightning.

Her tresses far surpass the clouds, the night, the yak,
Or bees, or moss:
Her eyebrow-tendril set on a crescent brow, surpasses
Bow and bees and snakes.

Her face excels the golden mirror, the moon, the lily,
Her lips the bimba-fruit and coral:
Her teeth surpass the pearl, the jasmine and the granate seed.
Her neck the figure of the conch.

Her beauteous breasts surpass the honey apple, or twin palmyra fruits,
Or golden jars, mountains, or goblets:
Her arms excel the lotus-root and jungle-rope.
Her waist the drum's and lion's.

Softer than moss her vine of down and darker than the sūrm,
The triple folds are lovelier than rolling waves:
Her navel far surpasses any lake, or lotus-leaves.
Her buttocks, head of olifant.

Her thighs excel the plaintain-stem, or trunk of royal olifant.
Her hands and feet, the lotus of the land:
Her nails surpass pomegranate-seeds, the moon, or gems.
Her speech is more than nectar-sweet.

Says Vidyāpati: Her shape is unsurpassed,
Peerless is Rādhā's beauty:
Rājā Shivasimha Rūpanārāyana
Is the eleventh Avatar!

LII.

Sakhī:         Rādhā's love is young,
No obstacle can stay her:
She has started all alone,
Reckless of any path.

She casts away the jewelled necklace
That weighed upon her jutting breasts:
She casts the rings and bracelets from her hands.
And leaves them all along the road.

The jewelled anklets from her feet
She flings afar and hurries on:
The night is very thick and black,
But Love lights up the gloom.

The way is fraught with dangers
Which love's weapon overcomes:
Vidyāpati knows your mind—
Never was such another seen.

LIII.

Krishna:      The night is late, the fair one timorous and fearful:
When will she of the olifant gait be here?
The path is filled with dreadful snakes,
How many dangers do her path beset, and she with feet so tender!

To the feet of Providence I trust her,
Success attend the Beauty's tryst!
The sky is black, the earth is sodden,—
My heart is anxious for her danger.

Heavy the darkness in every airt,—
Her feet may slip, she cannot find the path:
Her glance beguiles each living thing
Lakshmī comes in human form!

Says Vidyāpati the poet:
The maid enamoured yields to none but Love.

Sakhī:         She veils her face, that lady shene,—
They tell the king: The moon is stolen.
O lovely lover, how may you not be seen
By watchmen keeping watch in every house?

Let not your smile flash out, sweet-face,
Murmur but soft and low the music of your words,—
For near your lips are lustrous teeth.
As near the vermeil mark is set a pearl.

Hearken, hearken, to my words of counsel,
Even in dreams may nothing hinder:
The moon differs from you but in her spots,
For she is stained, and you are stainless.

Ha! Rājā Shivasimha and Lakshmī Dev,
Says Vidyāpati: My heart is fearless.

LV.

Sakhī:         The citizens are waking on the king's highway,
Rays of the moon light up the dome of earth:
No peace in new-born love,—
I am amazed to see you. Loveliness!

How many ways the damsel seeks to hide herself:
She goes a-trysting in a boy's disguise.
And binds her flowing tresses in a knot.
Changing diversely the fashion of her dress.

And since her breasts may not be hidden by their veil,
She clasps an instrument of music to her bosom:
Thus she attains the darkness of the forest,—
The Lord of lovers cannot know her when he sees her!

Perplexed is Mādhava, when he perceives her,
But at a touch the riddle is resolved.
Says Vidyāpati: What happened then,—
What sports of Love ensued?

Kavi:      Came the lord of seasons,—Royal Spring:
The hosts of bees besieged the mādhavī flowers,
The sun's rays reached their youthful powers,
The keshara flowers upheld the sceptre of the king.

Fresh pītal flowers composed the royal throne,
Golden blossoms raised the state umbrella.
And mango-buds the crest above:
Before the king the koils sang the pancam-note.

The peacocks danced, the bees buzzed,
The twice-born sang the blessing spells:
Enamoured of the southern breeze.
The pollen of the flowers upraised a canopy.

Jasmine and honey-apple bore the banner:
Pātal the quiver, rows of ashoka trees the arrows.
Seeing the allied kimshuk and labanga-vine
The Winter season broke before the Spring.

The army was a swarm of honey-bees
That rooted out the Winter utterly:
The rescued lotus came to life.
Offering its fresh leaves for a throne.

There is delight in Brindāban, says Vidyāpati,
Befitting what shall there befall.

Kavi:       In Brindāban renewed the groves are green,
The flowers new-spread:
The Spring is new, and the new southern breeze
Excites the swarms of lusty bees.

The bloom of youth disports.
The bowers beside Kālindī's banks display unwonted loveliness,
New snares of love are laid:
The bees are frenzied by new sappy buds,
The callow koils are a-calling.

The new young maidens, maddened with new longings,
Are hurrying to the groves.
A new Lord reigns: the lusty lovers young
Are bright with new-found lustre.

For ever and for ever new diversions such as these
      Delight the heart of Vidyāpati.

LVIII.

Kavi:      Drunken are the honey-bees in honey-season
With the honey of the honey-flowers:
In Honey-Brindāban resides
The Honey-Lord of honey-love.

Amid the companies of honey-maids
Is honey-honey-dalliance:
Honeyed are the blissful instruments of music,
Honeyed hands are beating honey-measures.

Honeyed is the dance's sway,
Honeyed are the movements of the dancers.
Honeyed are their happy songs,
And honeyed are the words of Vidyāpati.

Kavi:      The blissful night of Spring holds sway
Glad dalliance among, and passionate rāsa-dance;
And lovely Rādhā, jewel of maids, is filled with longing,—
Skilled in the dance. He bathes with her in bliss.

Merrily the company of maidens dancing,—
Golden bangles tinkling tunefully,—
Now will they sing an amorous air
The mode of Spring, more passionate than any other.

Rabāb, pināsh, and mahātik are sounding:
Murali sports, delighting Rādhā's heart.
The merry poet Vidyāpati sings
What Rūpanārāyan his lord, well knows.

LX.

Krishna:      Refrain your wrath, disdainful lady:
Breasts that are globes of gold, and serpent-necklace,
By these I swear,—
If ever I touch another girl, forsaking you,
May I be bitten by that necklace-serpent!

Or if you will not trust my protestation,
Inflict on me at will a fitting penance:
Bound in the rope of your two arms, bruise me with your hips.
Rest on my body the weary burden of your breasts.
Prison me night and day within your bosom's gaol!

Vidyāpati says: This penance is befitting!

LXI.

Dūtikā:      He who was wont to wanton with a flute, has cast away his jewels,
He who was wont to wear a yellow weed, now grovels at your feet,—
There was a time your eyes would overflow, might you not see him.
Now you will not so much as look upon his face!

Beauty, abandon your bitter mood.
Lusty Kānu is praying at your feet:
By happy hap this amorous Shyām is yours.
By happy hap the tide of spring,—

By happy hap this love's attainment,
By happy hap this blissful night,—
Damsel disdainful, will you forsake your Krishna's body,
And spend your life henceforth in lonely weeping?

These be love's ways, says Vidyāpati,—
Yet prayer's denial deserves no praise.

Dūtikā:      One little moment of a day you keep your youth,—
The days are floating by:
Evil and good, these two will travel at your side,—
The only final gain is what you give to others.

Beauty, you have had part in killing Hari,
All day and night he thinks of only you,—
This is his hour of separation!

In sorrow's sea he swims or sinks,—
Show him your globéd breasts:
O worthy fair one, Gokula's Lord preserve,
And win the praise of the Triple Worlds!

Of a myriad lovers, whosoever looks on Kāna,
Deems that day is blest:
Frenzied is Hari by reason of your fury
The poet Vidyāpati avows.

Rādhā:           You shall not tell me otherwise, my dear:
Little by little I came to know him better,
That Kānu is so cunning.

He made a sweetmeat of some knotty wood,
By smearing treacle on it:
Filling with poison a golden jar,
He added a layer of milk!

Yet surely Kān is good, and I am bad,
Because his words beguile me:
In heart and speech He is the same,
Matchless amidst a myriad.

The same flower that you cast away, the same you use in prayer.
And with the same you string the bow:
Such is the quality of Kānu s speech.
The poet Vidyāpati avows.

LXIV.

Dūtika:      O lovely wrathful lady, stony-heart,
In such a plight he is, and yet you say no word!

True love's way is not of such a sort;
It is befitting you should mix with him.

When for his loneliness his life is forfeit,
With whom will you continue anger then?

Who says your heart is soft?
Never was heart so hard as yours!

If now you do not mix with Mādhava,
The poet Vidyāpati will never speak with you again.

Kavi:      With hanging head, she writes upon the ground,
Whoever utters Shyāma's name, she utterly ignores
Over her glowing robe her hair falls free,
She casts away her jewels and all her fine array.

Her face is like a lord of rosy lilies, void of sap:
The earth is flooded with her streaming tears.
Just then the Lady of the Forest came
And said: 'Fair maid, go we to serve the Sun.'

But she of the hanging head made no reply.
Says Vidyāpati: She went away.

Krishna:      'Why veil your face, dear beautiful?
You've stolen my wits away:
You have no dread of slaying men,
Your courage is unbounded!

'O wrathful lady, my heart is frenzied,
No more I may sustain the pangs of Madan,
But come to you for refuge.

'Whether two towering hills, or cups of gold,
I gaze and cannot tell:
And on each breast is Shambhu reverenced,
Framed in his crescent moon.

'I fain would touch them with these lotus hands
If fate be not forbidding:
I seek a sanctuary at your feet—
(O that the damsel may be kind!)'

Seeing her restlessness, I was distraught.
My heart beat fast.
Hearken, young damsel, says Vidyāpati:
Bestow some boon on Kāna.

Krishna:      Hearken, hearken, worthy Rādhā,
For what offence do you refuse my company?

How many stars have risen in the sky,
But the moon is another Avatār!

What more in special can I say?
In a host of a myriad Lakshmīs I have eyes for none.

And hearing this the maiden's heart dissolved in tears,
And his desires were realised.

Vidyāpati says: There was reunion;
All were astonished at the tale!

Krishna:      Your high round breasts—like golden cups—
And curving eyes, have stolen my wits away:
O lady fair, forbear your bitter fury,
And give the frenzied bee his draught of honey!

I clasp your hands, my fair sweet girl,
Be not so cruel, have pity on my lot:
How many times must I advise you
I may no more sustain the sting of love!

Vidyāpati says: You know full well.
That hope deferred is worse than death.

Dutikā:      Hearken, O Mādhava: Rādhā is waxen wilful,—
How carefully and in how many ways I warned her.
And yet the beauty gave no answer!

The lovely creature when she hears your name,
Covers her ears with her hands:
She who thought that your love was for ever new.
Now will not even hear you speak!

I laid before her a lock of your hair.
Flowers and grass and pan:
But the wrathful face of a lily she would not turn,—
She sat unmoved, with face averted.

This heart of yours forsooth, is lightning's very essence,—
How shall I soothe your fury?
Vidyāpati says: A kind word would be fitting;
But you yourself be still, O Kāna.

Rādhā:           At last, my dear, I see how Kāna is uncouth:
An axe of brass, useless for any work,
A layer of tinsel over it!

Albeit I showed him angry eyes, how came it that the mountains
Slipped in two thick roads?
Taking the shālmal for the sandal, he clasped it close,—
But there was a thorny dart!

He who has spent his life amongst the beasts,
What can he know of Rati's ways?
This is a night of nectar, but I spent it vainly
With yonder boorish Herdsman!

Vidyāpati says: Hearken, young woman:
He is not ever a boor!
You are uncouth yourself, your trade is herding too,
You cannot lay such blame on Hari!

Rādhā:     There bloomed a flower of golden shene,
My hope was high the fruit would be a gem,
I fed its roots with streams of milk;
I saw no fruit, and all was vanity!

I am the simple daughter of a cowherd,
And this unworthy love is worse than death;
What woe, Alas, has Fate afflicted me,—
For hope of gain, I lost my all!

This is Vidyāpati' s conclusion:
You cannot make a dog's tail straight.

Krishna:      The sun is in the East, the tide of night has ebbed,
The moon is merging in the sky.
The water-lily closed,—and even so, my lady fair,
Your lily-face is shut.

A lily-face, two lotus-eyes,
And lips of honey.
All your body flower-wrought,—
Why is your heart of stone?

Your hands are wasted, and you wear no bracelets,
Even a garland is a weary burden:
And yet you will not cast away your mountain load of pride—
What wicked ways are yours!

Now leave these wrongs, give Hari bliss, my fair,
Now with the dawn, give over wrath:
Rājā Shivasimha Rūpanārāyana,
Says Vidyāpati!

Sakhī:      Beauty, of lineage and courtesy, without your eyes—
The best of lovers—what may you do?
How may you make jap-tap, or alms bestow or vows accomplish.
Who have no pity on the pitiful?

'I would advise you very seriously, my dear:
One such a virtue many a sin may cancel,
A single sin destroys the fruit of many virtues.

'Though brother to the poison, thief of a guru's wife.
And vomited from Rahu's jaws.
Scorching divided lovers, slayer of water-lilies,—
Yet for his merits the moon shines bright!

'Loving another's children, careless of his own,
The crow drinks dregs of love:
Yet an only word of His, wipes all those faults away,—
He speaks such honey-words.'

Rādhā:     'What can I say, my dear, of Kāna's love—
The roothless root of every virtue?
Touching His flute He makes a hundred vows
But even then I cannot trust Him.

'Renewed embraces: kissing me upon His lap,
He makes protest of loyalty!
But He has spent the night beside some other girl,
And emptied me of hope.

'In something more than fire my body burns
I see the seal of Rati on every limb.'
Life may expire, says Vidyāpati,
And yet you will not mix with Hari!

Rādhā:     Hearken, prithee, heartless Hari,
Fie on your such love!
Why did you speak of keeping tryst,
And with another maiden spent the night?

You make pretence of love for Rāi,
And dally with another girl:
Who says brave Kānu is best of lovers?
No such another fool is in the world.

Refusing ruby, you seek for glass,
Leaving an lake of nectar, you long for brine,
Forsaking a sea of curds, to wanton in a well,—
Fie on your amorous blandishment!

Vidyāpati the lord of poets avows:
Rādhā will never look upon your face again.

Rādhā:     Thirsting for fragrance I flew to the flower
But never I came the near,
I saw not a drop of the ocean of honey,
And now the people mock me.

And lo, my dear, the bee bewitched by someone else
And no one passes any judgment thereupon:
By little steps I came to understand him better,
How is his heart as fickle as the lightning.

Forsaking the lily, he followed the screw-pine,
Inhaling its fragrance:
But the thorns have pierced his body
His face is smeared with dust.

Somewhat hurt, I think, he comes again to me,
As though he had been disappointed:
There is one flavour men have never understood—
Distinction of the good and bad.

Hearken, my good girl, says Vidyāpati;
Love is only understood by lovers,—
Rājā Shivasimha is the storehouse of all virtues.
And Rānī Lakshmī Devī his wife!

Sakhī:      The wrath of the wrathful fled afar
Kānu sank in a sea of nectar:
But when he asked for her embrace,
Albeit heavy with love, her lovely body might not bend.

Honeyed was the swain's speech,
Tremulous the beauty's sighs;
Her Lord enfolded her upon his lap.
But yet the flow of nectar was but little.

Gently he kissed her face—her eyes were full of tears,
And though her heart was full of love, yet love was lacking;
Bravely he touched her bosom with his hands.
But even then desire would not awake.

And when at last he loosed her girdle.
Then even, in Hari's bliss, desire was cold.
And even then she felt no gladness:
Is it pleasure or pain, says Vidyāpati?

LXXVII.

Sakhī:      Peerless Rādhā beside Murāri,—
Her wrath broke down, whose wrath was stubborn!
Mādhava kisses Rādhā's face,
Looks on her moon-face with brimming eyes.

All of her maidens were filled with joy,
Madan entered the hearts of both.
Twain were enraptured, each in the other's lap:
A sight that fills Vidyāpati with bliss.

LXXVIII.

Sakhī:      'Tell me, O Beauty, what were the night's delights.
How did your Lord fulfil your hopes?
(How curiously, methinks, has Providence
Created man and maid!)
You are the fairest woman of the world
And have attained Murāri, worthiest of men.'

Rādhā:     'I am not able to recite my lover's love,
The fates have not bestowed on me a myriad mouths!
Doffing his necklace of ivory pearls,
With care he set it on my neck:
Taking my hands, he set me on his lap,
And cooled my limbs with fragrant sandal.

'He loosed my locks (so neatly bound),
And wreathed them with a campak garland;
With honey-honey-glances Kāna gazed on me,
His eyes brimmed over with tears of joy.'

Billows of love, says Vidyāpati:
Hearken, my dear, I sing their Union.

Sakhī:      Measureless virtue! whereso yearning bodies meet—
Now there has been indissoluble union of the twain:
How many a one essayed this way and that,
Yet none availed to put the twain asunder!

Never any household in the wicked world
Has seen such love as this, a very fount of milk!
If one should fetch it to the fire
And stir the milk to separate the water,
The milk, exulting in the heat, boils over—
Goaded by separation pangs, it leaps into the fire!

If any one should pour more water in it,
Then the separation-pangs withdraw afar.
Avows Vidyāpati: Love is such,
And such the love of Rādhā-Mādhava.

Rādha:     Very cunning is my Kāna,
Without any spell he broke my wrath!
He appeared to-day in a yogi's weed—
Who can explain such singular gestes?

At the will of my mother-in-law I went to give him alms,
When he saw my face, he began to murmur words of love,
And he said: 'The gift I ask is the jewel of your pride,'—
(Then I could tell what guile was his!)

'Tis shame to recite all that he said.
Nobody knows the Lord of lovers!
Vidyāpati says: lovely Rāi,
How can you plumb the depth of his cunning?

Rādhā:     What can I tell of to-day's affair my dear?
A jewel fell to the hands of a fool
Who knows not the price of gold or glass,
And reckons alike the jewels and gañja seeds,

Who is lacking in lore of crafts of love,
And reckons milk and water the same:
How can I feel affection for him?
Shall a necklace of pearls adorn the neck of a monkey?

Wise in this savour, Vidyāpati asks:
Has pan ever graced the mouth of a monkey?

Rādhā:     What shall I tell you, dear gay friend?
I cannot speak of to-day's disports:
I was lying alone on my flowery bed,
Love was my fellow, armed with his flowery darts.

Kāna came with his tinkling anklets,
In jest I lay with eyes closed:
Kāna came nigh and sat beside me,
I turned my face to hide my laughter.

Hari lifted from my locks their flowery chaplet,
And gave me his crest of peacock feathers:
With elaborate care he took the pearl from my nose
And lifted the necklet from my neck!

Loosing the bodice, my dear one lost his wits!
Then Madan woke, and I bound the thief my arms:

Says Vidyāpati: A learned wanton he—
You may be lovesome, but your lover is a master of the art of love!
In you there is love, but he is a lover all-wise in loving!

Rādhā:     I was still very wrathful.
But my lover disguised as a girl dissolved my pride:
What can I tell of the pranks of to-day, my dear?
For there came Kān with the maiden-messenger!

He bound his curling hair in a knot,
The Lord of lovers dressed like a girl!
He put on a necklace and made a breast in his bosom,
He put on his feet a jewelled anklet.

First he put his left foot foremost,—
Ratipati danced with his flowery bow;
I looked with amazement,—and fondled him freely,
With downbent glances, I set him in my lap!

When I touched his body so full of love,
The pride of my wrath fled Under-earth,
I stood all astonished, with finger to nose.
Vidyāpati says: The quarrel was ended!

Rādhā:     My frolicsome friend, what shall I say?
There was another prank, unspeakable:
Naked of any weed, I sat alone at home,
When he of the lotus-eyes appeared unseen!

To hide my body on either side revealed the other,
(O open wide and let me sink into the earth!)
Seeking to cover my breasts with my hands, I could not,—
Just as the snow may not conceal the southern hills.

Out on you, fie! my life, my youth, my honour,
The Lord of Braj gazed on my limbs to-day!
O amorous Rai, Vidyāpati says,
Could you outwit such wit as his?