Thish head that mother and that mamma kissed, That never bent to worship god, I wist, Upon thish head she dared to plant her feet, Like jackals on the carrion they meet. 19 Sthāvaraka, you shlave, where did you pick her up? _Sthāvaraka._ Master, the highway was blocked by villagers' wagons. So I stopped my cart near Chārudatta's orchard, and got out. And while I was helping a villager with his wagon, I suppose she mistook this cart for another, and climbed in. P. 201.14] _Sansthānaka._ Oho! she mishtook my cart for another? and did n't come to shee me? Get out of my cart, get out! You 're going to visit your poor merchant's shon, are you? Those are my bullocks you 're driving. Get out, get out, you shlave! Get out, get out! _Vasantasenā._ Truly, you honor me when you say that I came to see Chārudatta. Now what must be, must be. _Sansthānaka._ These hands of mine, ten-finger-naily, These hands sho lotush-leafy, Are itching-anxious, girl, to dally With you; and in a jiffy I 'll drag Your Shweetness by the hair From the cart wherein you ride, As did Jatāyu Bāli's fair, The monkey Bāli's bride. 20 _Courtier._ So virtuous ladies may not be Insulted thus despitefully; Nor garden creepers may not be Robbed of their leaves so cruelly. 21 Stand up, man. I will help her to alight. Come, Vasantasenā! [_Vasantasenā alights and stands apart._] _Sansthānaka._ [_Aside._] The flame of wrath was kindled when she despised my proposition, and now it blazes up because she kicked me. Sho now I 'll murder her. Good! Thish way. [_Aloud._] Well, shir, what do you want? A cloak with fringes hanging down and all, Tied with a hundred shtrings? or good ragout, To make you shmack your greedy lips and call "Chuhoo, chuhoo, chukku, chuhoo, chuhooo"? 22 _Courtier._ Well? _Sansthānaka._ Do me a favor. [123.11. S. _Courtier._ Certainly. Anything, unless it be a sin. _Sansthānaka._ There's not a shmell of a shin in it, shir. Not a perfume! _Courtier._ Speak, then. _Sansthānaka._ Murder Vasantasenā. _Courtier._ [_Stopping his ears._] A tender lady, gem of this our city, A courtezan whose love was stainless ever-- If I should kill her, sinless, without pity. What boat would bear me on the gloomy river? 23 _Sansthānaka._ I'll give you a boat. And beshides, in thish deserted garden, who'll shee you murdering her? _Courtier._ The regions ten,[80] the forest gods, the sky, The wind, the moon, the sun whose rays are light, Virtue, my conscience--these I cannot fly, Nor earth, that witnesses to wrong and right. 24 _Sansthānaka._ Well then, put your cloak over her and murder her. _Courtier._ You fool! You scoundrel!