“Oh thou who reclinest on the bosom of Kamala, whose ears flame with gems, and whose locks are embellished with sylvan flowers; thou, from whom the [541] day-star derived his effulgence, who slewest the venom-breathing Kaliya, who beamedst like a sun on the tribe of Yadu, that flourished like a lotus; thou, who sittest on the plumage of Garuda, who sippest nectar from the radiant lips of Padma, as the fluttering chakora drinks the moonbeams; be victorious, O Hari.” Jayadeva then introduces Hari in the society of the pastoral nymphs of Vraj, whom he groups with admirable skill, expressing the passion by which each is animated towards the youthful prince with great warmth and elegance of diction. But Radha, indignant that he should divide with them the affection she deemed exclusively her own, flies his presence. Hari, repentant and alarmed, now searches the forest for his beloved, giving vent at each step to impassioned grief. “Woe is me! she feels a sense of injured honour, and has departed in wrath. How will she conduct herself? How will she express her pain in so long a separation? What is wealth to me? What are numerous attendants? What the pleasures of the world? How can I invite thee to return? Grant me but a sight of thee, oh! lovely Radha, for my passion torments me. O God of love! mistake me not for Siva. Wound me not again. I love already but too passionately; yet have I lost my beloved. Brace not thy bow, thou conqueror of the world! My heart is already pierced by arrows from Radha’s eyes, black and keen as those of the antelope.” Radha relents and sends a damsel in quest of Hari, whom she finds in a solitary arbour on the banks of the Yamuna. She describes her mistress as animated by the same despair which controls him: “Her face is like a water-lily veiled in the dew of tears, and her eyes are as moons eclipsed. She draws thy picture and worships it, and at the close of every sentence exclaims, ‘O Madhava, at thy feet am I fallen!’ Then she figures thee standing before her: she sighs, she smiles, she mourns, she weeps. Her abode, the forest—herself through thy absence is become a timid roe, and love is the tiger who springs on her, like Yama, the genius of death. So emaciated is her beautiful body, that even the light garland which waves o’er her bosom is a load. The palm of her hand supports her aching temple, motionless as the crescent rising at eve. Thus, O divine healer, by the nectar of thy love [542] must Radha be restored to health; and if thou refusest, thy heart must be harder than the thunder-stone.”[4.20.39]