Chapter XXVI

_Sakhī:_ Hearken, hearken, O virtuous Rādhā:
Murdering Mādhava, what is the good you will gain?

By day the moon is pale and lonely,
Likewise _he_ waxes thinner and thinner:
His rings and bracelets slip,--
I think he must remake them many times.

_I cannot understand your ways;_
_The poet rests his head upon his hands!_