For not to us do these thine arrows seem Pointed with tender flowerets; not to us Doth the pale moon irradiate the earth With beams of silver fraught with cooling dews:-- But on our fevered frames the moon-beams fall Like darts of fire, and every flower-tipped shaft Of Káma, as it probes our throbbing hearts, Seems to be barbed with hardest adamant. Adorable god of love! hast thou no pity for me? [_In a tone of anguish_.] How can thy arrows be so sharp when they are pointed with flowers? Ah! I know the reason: E'en now in thine unbodied essence lurks The fire of Siva's anger, like the flame That ever hidden in the secret depths Of ocean, smoulders there unseen. How else Couldst thou, all immaterial as thou art, Inflame our hearts thus fiercely?--thou, whose form Was scorched to ashes by a sudden flash From the offended god's terrific eye. Yet, methinks, Welcome this anguish, welcome to my heart These rankling wounds inflicted by the god, Who on his scutcheon bears the monster-fish Slain by his prowess: welcome death itself, So that, commissioned by the lord of love, This fair one be my executioner. Adorable divinity! Can I by no reproaches excite your commiseration? Have I not daily offered at thy shrine Innumerable vows, the only food Of thine ethereal essence? Are my prayers Thus to be slighted? Is it meet that thou Shouldst aim thy shafts at thy true votary's heart, Drawing thy bow-string even to thy ear? [_Pacing up and down in a melancholy manner_.] Now that the holy men have completed their rites, and have no more need of my services, how shall I dispel my melancholy? [_Sighing._ I have but one resource. Oh for another sight of the idol of my soul! I will seek her. [_Glancing at the sun._] In all probability, as the sun's heat is now at its height, Śakoontalá is passing her time under the shade of the bowers on the banks of the Máliní, attended by her maidens. I will go and look for her there. [_Walking and looking about._] I suspect the fair one has but just passed by this avenue of young-trees. Here, as she tripped along, her fingers plucked The opening buds: these lacerated plants, Shorn of their fairest blossoms by her hand, Seem like dismembered trunks, whose recent wounds Are still unclosed; while from the bleeding socket Of many a severed stalk, the milky juice Still slowly trickles, and betrays her path. [_Feeling a breeze._] What a delicious breeze meets me in this spot! Here may the zephyr, fragrant with the scent Of lotuses, and laden with the spray Caught from the waters of the rippling stream, Fold in its close embrace my fevered limbs. [_Walking and looking about._] She must be somewhere in the neighborhood of this arbor of overhanging creepers, enclosed by plantations of cane. [_Looking down._]