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He who, through excessive pride, bows not to Śiva, Vishnu, or Brahma, that same Śekharaka falls at thy feet, O Navamáliká.

Oh drunken wretch, there is no Navamáliká here.

Śekharaka, overcome with wine, is soothing his reverence Átreya in mistake for me. I will put on a pretence of anger, and have a game with them.

Sir, let her go. It is not Navamáliká. Here is Navamáliká, just come, and looking on, with eyes lit up with anger.

Well, Śekharaka, whom are you courting here?

O lady, it is only I, an ill-fated Brahman.

Halloa! You tawny monkey, would you too deceive Śekharaka? Come, slave, take hold of him, whilst I soothe Navamáliká.

Whatever my master orders.