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her transcendent beauty; her eyes, which fascinated the soul of his prince, never sparkled, I suppose, on Mádhavya.

Dushm. Which of the figures do you conceive intended for the queen?

Mádh. [Examining the picture.] It is she, I imagine, who looks a little fatigued; with the string of her vest rather loose; the slender stalks of her arms falling languidly; a few bright drops on her face, and some flowers dropping from her untied locks. That must be the queen; and the rest, I suppose, are her damsels.

Dushm. You judge well; but my affection requires something more in the piece. Besides, through some defect in the colouring, a tear seems trickling down her cheek, which ill suits the state in which I desired to see her painted.— [To the Damsel.]—The picture, O Chaturicà, is unfinished.—Go back to the painting room and bring the implements of thy art.

Dams. Kind Mádhavya, hold the picture while I obey the king.

Dushm. No; I will hold it.

[He takes the picture; and the Damsel goes out.

Mádh. What else is to be painted?

Misr. [Aside.] He desires, I presume, to add all those circumstances which became the situation of his beloved in the hermitage.

Dushm. In this landscape, my friend, I wish to see represented the river Málinì, with some amorous Flamingos on its green margin; farther