[_Both walk on a little way, and seat themselves_. KING.--Máthavya, it may be said of you that you have never beheld anything worth seeing: for your eyes have not yet looked upon the loveliest object in creation. MÁTHAVYA.--How can you say so, when I see your Majesty before me at this moment? KING.--It is very natural that everyone should consider his own friend perfect; but I was alluding to Śakoontalá, the brightest ornament of these hallowed groves. MÁTHAVYA [_aside_].--I understand well enough, but I am not going to humor him. [_Aloud_.] If, as you intimate, she is a hermit's daughter, you cannot lawfully ask her in marriage. You may as well, then, dismiss her from your mind, for any good the mere sight of her can do. KING.--Think you that a descendant of the mighty Puru could fix his affections on an unlawful object? Though, as men say, the offspring of the sage, The maiden to a nymph celestial owes Her being, and by her mother left on earth, Was found and nurtured by the holy man As his own daughter, in this hermitage;-- So, when dissevered from its parent stalk, Some falling blossom of the jasmine, wafted Upon the sturdy sunflower, is preserved By its support from premature decay. MÁTHAVYA [_smiling_].--This passion of yours for a rustic maiden, when you have so many gems of women at home in your palace, seems to me very like the fancy of a man who is tired of sweet dates, and longs for sour tamarinds as a variety. KING.--You have not seen her, or you would not talk in this fashion. MÁTHAVYA.--I can quite understand it must require something surpassingly attractive to excite the admiration of such a great man as you. KING.--I will describe her, my dear friend, in a few words-- Man's all-wise Maker, wishing to create A faultless form, whose matchless symmetry Should far transcend Creation's choicest works, Did call together by his mighty will, And garner up in his eternal mind, A bright assemblage of all lovely things:-- And then, as in a picture, fashion them Into one perfect and ideal form. Such the divine, the wondrous prototype, Whence her fair shape was moulded into being. MÁTHAVYA.--If that's the case, she must indeed throw all other beauties into the shade. KING.--To my mind she really does. This peerless maid is like a fragrant flower, Whose perfumed breath has never been diffused; A tender bud, that no profaning hand Has dared to sever from its parent stalk; A gem of priceless water, just released Pure and unblemished from its glittering bed. Or may the maiden haply be compared To sweetest honey, that no mortal lip Has sipped; or, rather to the mellowed fruit Of virtuous actions in some former birth, Now brought to full perfection? Lives the man Whom bounteous heaven has destined to espouse her?