Why should your fleeter flight Outstrip my flying feet? Why, like a snake in fright Before the bird-king's might, Thus seek to flee, my sweet? Could I not catch the storm-wind in his flight? Yet would not seize upon you, though I might. 22 P. 19.9] _Sansthānaka_. Lishten to me, shir! Thish whip of robber Love, thish dancing-girl, Eater of fish, deshtroyer of her kin, Thish shnubnose, shtubborn, love-box, courtezan, Thish clothes-line, wanton creature, maid of sin-- I gave her ten shweet names, and shtill She will not bend her to my will. 23 _Courtier_. As courtier's fingers strike the lute's tense string, The dancing ear-ring smites your wounded cheek. Why should you flee, with dreadful terror weak, As flees the crane when heaven's thunders ring? 24 _Sansth_. Your jingling gems, girl, clink like anything; Like Draupadī you flee, when Rāma kisshed her. I'll sheize you quick, as once the monkey-king Sheized Subhadrā, Vishvāvasu's shweet shishter. 25 _Servant_. He's the royal protégé; Do whatever he may say. And you shall have good fish and flesh to eat. For when dogs have all the fish And the flesh that they can wish, Even carrion seems to them no longer sweet. 26 _Courtier_. Mistress Vasantasenā, The girdle drooping low upon your hips Flashes as brilliant as the shining stars; The wondrous terror of your fleeing mars Your charms; for red realgar, loosened, slips As on an imaged god, from cheek and lips. 27 _Sansth_. We're chasing you with all our main and might, As dogs a jackal when they hunt and find it; But you are quick and nimble in your flight, And shteal my heart with all the roots that bind it. 28 [11.23. S. _Vasantasenā._ Pallavaka! Parabhritikā! _Sansthānaka._ Mashter! a man! a man! _Courtier._ Don't be a coward. _Vasantasenā._ Mādhavikā! Mādhavikā! _Courtier._ [_Laughing._] Fool! She is calling her servants. _Sansthānaka._ Mashter! Is she calling a woman? _Courtier._ Why, of course. _Sansthānaka._ Women! I kill hundreds of 'em. I'm a brave man. _Vasantasenā._ [_Seeing that no one answers._] Alas, how comes it that my very servants have fallen away from me? I shall have to defend myself by mother-wit. _Courtier._ Don't stop the search. _Sansthānaka._ Shqueal, Vasantasenā, shqueal for your cuckoo Parabhritikā, or for your blosshom Pallavaka or for all the month of May! Who's going to save you when I'm chasing you? Why shpeak of Bhīmasena? Or the shon Of Jamadagni, that thrice-mighty one? The ten-necked ogre? Shon of Kuntī fair? Jusht look at me! My fingers in your hair, Jusht like Duhshāsana, I'll tear, and tear. 29 Look, look!