Sansthānaka. Why shouldn't it be malodorous?
Of nut-grass and cumin I make up a pickle,
Of devil's-dung, ginger, and orris, and treacle;
That's the mixture of perfumes I eagerly eat:
Why shouldn't my voice be remarkably shweet? 13
Well, shir, I'm jusht going to shing again. [He does so.] There, shir, did you hear what I shang?
Courtier. What shall I say? Ah, how melodious!
Sansthānaka. Why shouldn't it be malodorous?
Of the flesh of the cuckoo I make up a chowder,
With devil's-dung added, and black pepper powder;
With oil and with butter I shprinkle the meat:
Why shouldn't my voice be remarkably shweet? 14
But shir, the shervant isn't here yet.
Courtier. Be easy in your mind. He will be here presently.
[Enter Vasantasenā in the bullock-cart, and Sthāvaraka.]
Sthāvaraka. I'm frightened. It is already noon. I hope Sansthānaka, the king's brother-in-law, will not be angry. I must drive faster. Get up, bullocks, get up!
Vasantasenā. Alas! That is not Vardhamānaka's voice. What does it mean? I wonder if Chārudatta was afraid that the bullocks might become weary, and so sent another man with another cart. My right eye twitches. My heart is all a-tremble. There is no one in sight. Everything seems to dance before my eyes.
Sansthānaka. [Hearing the sound of wheels.] The cart is here, shir.
Courtier. How do you know?
Sansthānaka. Can't you shee? It shqueaks like an old hog.
Courtier. [Perceives the cart.] Quite true. It is here.
Sansthānaka. Sthāvaraka, my little shon, my shlave, are you here?
Sthāvaraka. Yes, sir.
Sansthānaka. Is the cart here?
