To Candaka is ascribed in the Subhāṣitāvali [356] a fine verse of martial tone: eṣā hi raṇagatasya dṛḍhā pratijñā: drakṣyanti yan na ripavo jaghanaṁ hayānām yuddheṣu bhāgyacapaleṣu na me pratijñā: daivaṁ yad icchati jayaṁ ca parājayaṁ ca. ‘I go to battle, and I swear that my foes shall never see the backs of my steeds; for the rest, fate directs the destiny of the wavering fight; I promise nothing, but shall take defeat or victory as it pleases destiny.’ A verse of love is: [357] prasāde vartasva prakaṭaya mudaṁ saṁtyaja ruṣam priye çuṣyanty an̄gāny amṛtam iva te siñcatu vacaḥ nidhānaṁ saukhyānāṁ kṣaṇam abhimukhaṁ sthāpaya mukham na mugdhe pratyetum bhavati gataḥ kālahariṇaḥ. ‘Be gentle; show a little joy; lay aside thy anger; beloved, my limbs are dried up, let thy speech pour ambrosia upon them. Turn to me for a moment thy face, the abode of happiness; foolish one, time is an antelope which, gone, cannot be recalled.’ The other citations we have show skill both in tragic and erotic sentiment. Candraka was evidently admired by the authorities on poetics; we find in the commentary on the Daçarūpa [358] a verse, elsewhere ascribed to him, cited as an example where diverse sentiments blend but where one, that of coming parting of lovers, is predominant: ekenākṣṇā paritataruṣā vīkṣate vyomasaṁstham bhānor bimbaṁ sajalalulitenāpareṇātmakāntam ahnaç chede dayitavirahāçan̄kinī cakravākī dvau saṁkīrṇau racayati rasau nartakīva pragalbhā. ‘With one angry eye she gazes on the orb of the sun as it tarries on the horizon; with the other, dimmed by her tears, she looks on her soul’s beloved; thus the mate of the Cakravāka, feeling the approach at nightfall of separation from her dear one, expresses two emotions, even as a clever actress.’ Curiously enough we have no less than four stanzas of benediction ascribed to him, which illustrate a formal feature of the Sanskrit drama, the introduction of each play with one or more stanzas involving divine favour. The verses are interesting, not so much for the intrinsic merits of their poetry, which frankly are not great, but because of the curious manner in which Indian poetry treats its deities; the greatest of gods nevertheless in his sportive moods is yet made the prototype of the human lover: [359] cyutām indor lekhāṁ ratikalahabhagnaṁ ca valayam çanair ekīkṛtya hasitamukhī çailatanayā avocad yam paçyety avatu sa çivaḥ sā ca girijā sa ca krīḍācandro daçanakiraṇapūritatanuḥ. ‘Smiling, the daughter of the mountain wrought into one a digit fallen from the moon and a bracelet broken in a love quarrel, and said to her lord, “Behold my work”. May he, Çiva, protect you, and the lady of the mountain, and that moon of dalliance all covered with bites and rays.’