Though poverty may strike a good man low, Peculiar honor waits upon his woe; And 't is the glory of a courtezan To set her love upon an honest man. 33 And I, who have loved the mango-tree, I cannot cling to the locust-tree. _Sansthānaka._ Wench, you make that poor little Chārudatta into a mango-tree, and me you call a locusht-tree, not even an acacia! That 's the way you abuse me, and even yet you remember Chārudatta. _Vasantasenā._ Why should I not remember him who dwells in my heart? _Sansthānaka._ Thish very minute I 'm going to shtrangle "him who dwells in your heart," and you too. Shtand shtill, you poor-merchant-man's lover! _Vasantasenā._ Oh speak, oh speak again these words that do me honor! _Sansthānaka._ Jusht let poor Chārudatta--the shon of a shlave--reshcue you now! _Vasantasenā._ He would rescue me, if he saw me. _Sansthānaka._ Is he the king of gods? the royal ape? Shon of a nymph? or wears a demon's shape? The kingly deity of wind and rain? The offshpring of the Pāndu-princes' bane? A prophet? or a vulture known afar? A shtatesman? or a beetle? or a shtar? 34 P. 212.11] But even if he was, he could n't reshcue you. As Sītā in the Bhārata Was killed by good old Chānakya, Sho I intend to throttle thee, As did Jatāyu Draupadī. 35 [_He raises his arm to strike her._] _Vasantasenā._ Mother! where are you? Oh, Chārudatta! my heart's longing is unfulfilled, and now I die! I will scream for help. No! It would bring shame on Vasantasenā, should she scream for help. Heaven bless Chārudatta! _Sansthānaka._ Does the wench shpeak that rashcal's name even yet? [_He seizes her by the throat._] Remember him, wench, remember him! _Vasantasenā._ Heaven bless Chārudatta! _Sansthānaka._ Die, wench! [_He strangles her. Vasantasenā loses consciousness, and falls motionless._] _Sansthānaka._ [_Gleefully._] Thish bashketful of shin, thish wench, Thish foul abode of impudence-- She came to love, she shtayed to blench, For Death's embrace took every sense. But why boasht I of valorous arms and shtout? She shimply died because her breath gave out. Like Sītā in the Bhārata, she lies. Ah, mother mine! how prettily she dies. 36 [129.4. S. She would not love me, though I loved the wench; I shaw the empty garden, set the shnare, And frightened her, and made the poor girl blench. My brother! Oh, my father! Thish is where You misshed the shight of heroism shtout; Your brother and your shon here blosshomed out Into a man; like Mother Draupadī, You were not there, my bravery to shee. 37 Good! The old jackal will be here in a minute. I 'll shtep ashide and wait. [_He does so._] [_Enter the courtier, with Sthāvaraka._]