_Chārudatta._ What! did she not accept the necklace? _Maitreya._ How could we expect such a piece of luck? She put her lotus-tender hands to her brow,[62] and took it. _Chārudatta._ Then why do you say "went wrong"? _Maitreya._ Why not, when we lost a necklace that was the pride of the four seas for a cheap golden casket, that was stolen before we had a bite or a drink out of it? _Chārudatta._ Not so, my friend. She showed her trust in leaving us her treasure; The price of confidence has no less measure. 7 _Maitreya._ Now look here! I have a second grievance. She tipped her friend the wink, covered her face with the hem of her dress, and laughed at me. And so, Brahman though I am, I hereby fall on my face before you and beg you not to have anything more to do with this courtezan. That sort of society does any amount of damage. A courtezan is like a pebble in your shoe. It hurts before you get rid of it. And one thing more, my friend. A courtezan, an elephant, a scribe, a mendicant friar, a swindler, and an ass--where these dwell, not even rogues are born. _Chārudatta._ Oh, my friend, a truce to all your detraction! My poverty of itself prevents me. For consider: The horse would gladly hasten here and there, But his legs fail him, for his breath departs. So men's vain wishes wander everywhere, Then, weary grown, return into their hearts. 8 Then too, my friend: If wealth is thine, the maid is thine, For maids are won by gold; [_Aside._ And not by virtue cold. _Aloud._] But wealth is now no longer mine, And her I may not hold. 9 [78.23. S. _Maitreya._ [_Looks down. Aside._] From the way he looks up and sighs, I conclude that my effort to distract him has simply increased his longing. The proverb is right. "You can't reason with a lover." [_Aloud._] Well, she told me to tell you that she would have to come here this evening. I suppose she isn't satisfied with the necklace and is coming to look for something else. _Chārudatta._ Let her come, my friend. She shall not depart unsatisfied. [_Enter Kumbhīlaka._] _Kumbhīlaka._ Listen, good people. The more it rains in sheets, The more my skin gets wet; The more the cold wind beats, The more I shake and fret. 10 [_He bursts out laughing._] I make the sweet flute speak from seven holes, I make the loud lute speak on seven strings; In singing, I essay the donkey's rôles: No god can match my music when he sings. 11