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Dushm. The noon, my love, has not yet passed; and your sweet limbs are weak. Having left the couch where fresh flowers covered your bosom, you can ill sustain this intense heat with so languid a frame.

[He gently draws her back.

Sac. Leave me, oh leave me. I am not, indeed, my own mistress, or the two damsels were only appointed to attend me. What can I do at present?

Dushm. [Aside.] Fear of displeasing her makes me bashful.

Sac. [Overhearing him.] The king cannot give offence. It is my unhappy fate only that I accuse.

Dushm. Why should you accuse so favourable a destiny?

Sac. How rather can I help blaming it, since it has permitted my heart to be affected by amiable qualities, without having left me at my own disposal?

Dushm. [Aside.] One would imagine that the charming sex, instead of being, like us, tormented with love, kept love himself within their hearts, to torment him with delay.

[Sacontalá going out.

Dushm. [Aside.] How! Must I then fail of attaining felicity? [Following her, and catching the skirt of her mantle.

Sac. [Turning back.] Son of Puru, preserve thy reason; oh! preserve it.—The hermits are busy on all sides of the grove.