the
flowers are dropping from her hair; for the ribbon is loosened. Her
arms droop like weary branches; she has loosened her girdle, and she
seems a little fatigued. This, I think, is the lady Shakuntala, the
others are her friends.

_King_. You are good at guessing. Besides, here are proofs of my love.

See where discolorations faint
Of loving handling tell;
And here the swelling of the paint
Shows where my sad tears fell.

Chaturika, I have not finished the background. Go, get the brushes.

_Maid_. Please hold the picture, Madhavya, while I am gone.

_King_. I will hold it. (_He does so. Exit maid_.)

_Clown_. What are you going to add?

_Mishrakeshi_. Surely, every spot that the dear girl loved.

_King_. Listen, my friend.

The stream of Malini, and on its sands
The swan-pairs resting; holy foot-hill lands
Of great Himalaya's sacred ranges, where
The yaks are seen; and under trees that bear
Bark hermit-dresses on their branches high,
A doe that on the buck's horn rubs her eye.

_Clown_ (_aside_). To hear him talk, I should think he was going to
fill up the picture with heavy-bearded hermits.

_King_. And another ornament that Shakuntala loved I have forgotten to
paint.

_Clown_. What?

_Mishrakeshi_. Something natural for a girl living in the forest.

_King_.

The siris-blossom, fastened o'er her ear,
Whose stamens brush her cheek;
The lotus-chain like autumn moonlight soft
Upon her bosom meek.

_Clown_. But why does she cover her face with fingers lovely as the
pink water-lily? She seems frightened. (_He looks more closely_.) I
see. Here is a bold, bad bee. He steals honey, and so he flies to her
lotus-face.

_King_. Drive him away.

_Clown_. It is your affair to punish evil-doers.

_King_. True. O welcome guest of the flowering vine, why do you waste
your time in buzzing here?

Your faithful, loving queen,
Perched on a flower, athirst,
Is waiting for you still,
Nor tastes the honey first.

_Mishrakeshi_. A gentlemanly way to drive him off!

_Clown_. This kind are obstinate, even when you warn them.

_King_ (_angrily_). Will you not obey my command? Then listen:

'Tis sweet as virgin blossoms on a tree,
The lip I kissed in love-feasts tenderly;
Sting that dear lip, O bee, with cruel power,
And you shall be imprisoned in a flower.

_Clown_. Well, he doesn't seem afraid of your dreadful punishment.
(_Laughing. To himself_.) The man i