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124 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?

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.

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.

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?

Shon of a nymph? or wears a demon's shape?