Chapter XLIV

_Rādhā:_ You that are skilled in passion's lore have pity
on my shame,--
I will forsake it when my youth increases:
My little savour cannot satisfy you now,
The little draught will not suffice to slake your thirst.

Would you but take it drop by drop,
Daily increasing like the digit of the moon!
These little breasts of mine will hardly fill your hands
as yet,--
O Hari, do not wound them with your nails, be wise in love.

_Vidyāpati exclaims: What are these gestes,_
_To set such store upon a green pomegranate?_

XLV.

_Rādhā:_ You are that Banamāli that did slay Chānur:
This tender woman is the shirīsh-flower.
O cruel messenger that made this war,
And gave a jasmine-garland to an olifant!

No longer does the sūrm paint my eyes,
And wet with sweat are musk and sandal:
O wounded Mādhav, I beseech you,
Do not offer up my life upon the altar of Desire!

O Hari, Hari, let your purpose be
To spare my life until another day.
_Give Love his due, impatient lover!_
_Says Vidyāpati: Your wish shall be accomplished._