PRIYAMVADÁ [_thoughtfully_].--An idea strikes me, Anasúyá. Let Sakoontalá write a love-letter; I will conceal it in a flower, and contrive to drop it in the King's path. He will surely mistake it for the remains of some sacred offering, and will, in all probability, pick it up.
ANASÚYÁ.--A very ingenious device! It has my entire approval; but what says Sakoontalá?
SAKOONTALÁ.--I must consider before I can consent to it.
PRIYAMVADÁ.--Could you not, dear Sakoontalá, think of some pretty composition in verse, containing a delicate declaration of your love?
SAKOONTALÁ.--Well, I will do my best; but my heart trembles when I think of the chances of a refusal.
KING [_with rapture_].--Too timid maid, here stands the man from whom Thou fearest a repulse; supremely blessed To call thee all his own. Well might he doubt His title to thy love; but how couldst thou Believe thy beauty powerless to subdue him?
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.--You undervalue your own merits, dear Sakoontalá. What man in his senses would intercept with the skirt of his robe the bright rays of the autumnal moon, which alone can allay the fever of his body?
SAKOONTALÁ [_smiling_].--Then it seems I must do as I am bid. [_Sits down and appears to be thinking._]
KING.--How charming she looks! My very eyes forget to wink, jealous of losing even for an instant a sight so enchanting. How beautiful the movement of her brow, As through her mind love's tender fancies flow! And, as she weighs her thoughts, how sweet to trace The ardent passion mantling in her face!
SAKOONTALÁ.--Dear girls, I have thought of a verse, but I have no writing-materials at hand.
PRIYAMVADÁ.--Write the letters with your nail on this lotus leaf, which is smooth as a parrot's breast.
SAKOONTALÁ [_after writing the verse_].--Listen, dear friends, and tell me whether the ideas are appropriately expressed.
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.--We are all attention.
SAKOONTALÁ [_reads_].-- I know not the secret thy bosom conceals, Thy form is not near me to gladden my sight; But sad is the tale that my fever reveals, Of the love that consumes me by day and by night.
KING [_advancing hastily towards her_].-- Nay, Love does but warm thee, fair maiden--thy frame Only droops like the bud in the glare of the noon; But me he consumes with a pitiless flame, As the beams of the day-star destroy the pale moon.