Sansthānaka. I'll give you gold, I'll call you shweet;
My turbaned head adores your feet.
Why not love me, my clean-toothed girl?
Why worship such a pauper churl? 31
Vasantasenā. How can you ask? [She bows her head and recites the following verses.]
O base and vile! O wretch! What more?
Why tempt me now with gold and power?
The honey-loving bees adore
The pure and stainless lotus flower. 32
Though poverty may strike a good man low,
Peculiar honor waits upon his woe;
And 'tis 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!
Vasantasena. He would rescue me, if he saw me.
Sansthānaka. Is he the king of gods? the royal ape?
