See that the rich province of Kanchanpur is settled on the Pundit.--What's the matter now outside there? What are they crying for? If it please Your Majesty, it is the people. Why do they cry so repeatedly? Their cry is repeated, I admit, but the reason remains most monotonously the same. They are starving. But, King, I must tell you before I forget it. It is the one desire of my wife to make her whole body jingle, from head to foot, in praise of your munificence; but, alas, the sound is too feeble for want of proper ornaments. I understand you, Pundit. Vizier! Order ornaments from the Court Jeweller for Sruti-bhushan's wife immediately. And, King, while he is about it, would you tell the Vizier, that we are both of us distracted in our devotions by house-repairs. Let him ask the royal masons to put up a thoroughly well-built house, where we can practise our devotions in peace. Very well, Pundit.--Vizier! Yes, Your Majesty. Give the order at once. Sire, your treasury is empty. Funds are wanting. Pooh! That's an old story. I hear that every year. It is your business to increase the funds, and mine to increase the wants. What do you say, Sruti-bhushan? King, I cannot blame the Vizier. He is looking after your treasures in this world. We are looking after your treasures in the next. So where he sees want, we see wealth. Now, if you would only let me dive deep once more into the _Ocean of Renunciation_ you will find it written as follows: _That King's coffers are well stored, Where wealth alone on worth is poured._ Pundit, your company is most valuable. Your Majesty, Sruti-bhushan knows its value to a farthing. Come, Sruti-bhushan, make haste. Let us collect all the wealth you need for your Treasury of Devotion. For wealth has the ugly habit of diminishing fast. If we are not quick about it, little will remain to enable us to observe our renunciation with all splendour. Yes, Vizier, let us go at once. (_To the King._) When he is making such a fuss about a tiny matter like this, it is best to pacify him first and then return to you afterwards. Pundit, I am afraid that, some day, you will leave my royal protection altogether, and retire to the forest. King, so long as I find contentment in a King's palace, it is as good as a hermitage for my peace of mind. I must now leave you, King. Vizier, let us go. [_The Vizier and Pundit go out._ Oh, dear me! Whatever shall I do? Here's the Poet coming. I am afraid he'll make me break all my good resolutions.--Oh, my grey hairs, cover my ears, so that the Poet's allurements may not enter. Why, King, what's the matter? I hear you want to send away your Poet. What have I to do with poets, when poetry brings me this parting message? What parting message? Look at this behind my ear. Don't you see it? See what? Grey hairs? Why, King, don't you worry about that. Poet, Nature is trying to rub out the green of youth, and to paint everything white.