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In thousand forms the tumbling clouds embrace,

Though torn by winds, they gather, interlace,

And paint the ample canvas of the sky.

The sky is black as Dhritarāshtra's face;

Proud as the champion of Kuru's race,

The haughty peacock shrills his joy abroad;

The cuckoo, in Yudhishthira's sad case,

Is forced to wander if he would not die;

The swans must leave their forest-homes and fly,

Like Pāndu's sons, to seek an unknown place.

[Reflecting.] It is long since Maitreya went to visit Vasantasenā. And even yet he does not come. [Enter Maitreya.]

Maitreya. Confound the courtezan's avarice and her incivility! To think of her making so short a story of it! Over and over she repeats something about the affection she feels, and then without more ado she pockets the necklace. She is rich enough so that she might at least have said: "Good Maitreya, rest a little. You must not go until you have had a cup to drink." Confound the courtezan! I hope I'll never set eyes on her again. [Wearily.] The proverb is right. "It is hard to find a lotus-plant without a root, a merchant who never cheats, a goldsmith who never steals, a village-gathering without a fight, and a courtezan without avarice." Well, I'll find my friend and persuade him to have nothing more to do with this courtezan. [He walks about until he discovers Chārudatta.] Ah, my good friend is sitting in the orchard. I'll go to him. [Approaching.] Heaven bless you! May happiness be yours.

Chārudatta. [Looking up.] Ah, my friend Maitreya has returned. You are very welcome, my friend. Pray be seated.

Maitreya. Thank you.

Chārudatta. Tell me of your errand, my friend.

Maitreya. My errand went all wrong.