PRIYAMVADA [thoughtfully].—­An idea strikes me, Anasuya.  Let Sakoontala write a love-letter; I will conceal it in a flower, and contrive to drop it in the King’s path.  He will surely mistake it for the remains of some sacred offering, and will, in all probability, pick it up.

ANASUYA.—­A very ingenious device!  It has my entire approval; but what says Sakoontala?

SAKOONTALA.—­I must consider before I can consent to it.

PRIYAMVADA.—­Could you not, dear Sakoontala, think of some pretty composition in verse, containing a delicate declaration of your love?

SAKOONTALA.—­Well, I will do my best; but my heart trembles when I think of the chances of a refusal.

KING [with rapture].—­Too timid maid, here stands the man from whom
    Thou fearest a repulse; supremely blessed
    To call thee all his own.  Well might he doubt
    His title to thy love; but how couldst thou
    Believe thy beauty powerless to subdue him?

PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—­You undervalue your own merits, dear Sakoontala.  What man in his senses would intercept with the skirt of his robe the bright rays of the autumnal moon, which alone can allay the fever of his body?

SAKOONTALA [smiling].—­Then it seems I must do as I am bid.
          [Sits down and appears to be thinking.]

KING.—­How charming she looks!  My very eyes forget to wink, jealous of
losing even for an instant a sight so enchanting. 
    How beautiful the movement of her brow,
    As through her mind love’s tender fancies flow! 
    And, as she weighs her thoughts, how sweet to trace
    The ardent passion mantling in her face!

SAKOONTALA.—­Dear girls, I have thought of a verse, but I have no writing-materials at hand.

PRIYAMVADA.—­Write the letters with your nail on this lotus leaf, which is smooth as a parrot’s breast.

SAKOONTALA [after writing the verse].—­Listen, dear friends, and tell me whether the ideas are appropriately expressed.

PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA.—­We are all attention.

SAKOONTALA [reads].—­
    I know not the secret thy bosom conceals,
      Thy form is not near me to gladden my sight;
    But sad is the tale that my fever reveals,
      Of the love that consumes me by day and by night.

KING [advancing hastily towards her].—­
    Nay, Love does but warm thee, fair maiden—­thy frame
      Only droops like the bud in the glare of the noon;
    But me he consumes with a pitiless flame,
      As the beams of the day-star destroy the pale moon.

PRIYAMVADA AND ANASUYA [looking at him joyfully, and rising to salute him].—­Welcome, the desire of our hearts, that so speedily presents itself!

          [Sakoontala makes an effort to rise.]

KING.—­Nay, trouble not thyself, dear maiden,
      Move not to do me homage; let thy limbs
      Still softly rest upon their flowery couch,
      And gather fragrance from the lotus stalks
      Bruised by the fevered contact of thy frame.