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Mádhavya. [Sighing and lamenting.] Strange recreation this!—Ah me! I am wearied to death.—My royal friend has an unaccountable taste.—What can I think of a king so passionately fond of chasing unprofitable quadrupeds?—"Here runs an antelope? there goes a boar!"—Such is our only conversation.—Even at noon, in excessive heat, when not a tree in the forest has a shadow under it, we must be skipping and prancing about like the beasts whom we follow.—Are we thirsty? We have nothing to drink but the waters of mountain torrents, which taste of burned stones and mawkish leaves.—Are we hungry? We must greedily devour lean venison, and that commonly roasted to a stick.—Have I a moment's repose at night?—My slumber is disturbed by the din of horses and elephants, or by the sons of slave-girls hollooing out, "More venison, more venison!"—Then comes a cry that pierces my ear, "Away to the forest, away!" —Nor are these my only grievances: fresh pain is now added to the smart of my first wounds; for, while we were separated from our king, who was chasing a foolish deer, he entered, I find, yon