song:
Strife springs up twixt youth and childhood.
Neither admits defeat or victory.

Lo, Vidyāpati's enquiry,—
Shall she not leave her childhood finally?

XX.

Dūtikā:       Now youth advanced, childhood withdrew,
Her eyes have caught the dancing of her feet.
Twin eyes performed the task of messengers,
Her laughter hid, and shame was born.

Continually she sets her hand upon her robe.
Speaks every word with hanging head:
Her hips have gained their full-grown glory—
She leans on her companions when she walks.

Hearken, O Kana: I have drawn my own conclusions,
Hearken now, and make your own decision:
The savour of this matter is well-known to Vidyāpati,—
Record I take of Rāja Shivasimha and Lakshmī Devī.

RĀDHĀ PŪRBBARĀGA

XXI.

Rādhā:        How shall I tell of Kānu's beauty, my dear?
Who shall describe that dream-shape?
His lovely form is a fresh cloud,
His yellow garment the lightning's flash.

So black, so black his waving hair!
The peacock-plume so near the moon's orb!
For fragrance of the screw-pine and the jasmine,
Madan casts away his flower-arrows in dismay.

Vidyāpati asks: What more shall I say?
Nature has emptied Madan's treasury!

XXII.

Rādhā:        I had desired to look on Kānu,
But when I saw him I was filled with fear:
Ever since then I am both fond and foolish,
I have no knowledge at all what I say or do.

My twin eyes wept like dripping rain,
Unceasingly my heart went pit-a-pat:
I cannot think what made me look on him, my dear,
Just for that whim, I lent my life into another's hand!

I cannot tell what that dear thief has done to me,—
When I beheld him, he did steal my heart, and went away,
And as he went he showed so many signs of love,
The more I would forget, the less I may!

Hearken, fair maid, says Vidyāpati:
Have patience in your heart, for you shall meet Murāri.

XXIII.

Rādhā:        A peerless beauty I beheld, my dear,
If you but listen, you may know it was the vision of a dream
Twin lotus-feet that wore a string of moons,
From them two tender tamāl-shafts arising,—

Around them twined a vine of lightning,
(He slowly passed along Kālindī's bank):
Upon his leaf-like hands another string of moons—
The lustre of the sun on new-blown flowers.

Twin flawless bimba-fruits were ripe.
Above them sat a tranquil parrot:
Over him twin restless wagtails.
Over them a serpent coiled about his head.

My playful maid, explain:
Why did he steal my wits when I beheld him thus?
Vidyāpati says: It is a sign of love;
Well have you weighed the worthy wight.

XXIV.

Rādhā:        How can I tell the limits of my grief, my dear?
The blowing of that flute diffuses poison through my frame:
Insistently I hear it sounding,
And then my heart and body melt in shame.

In that supreme instant, my body fills to overflowing,
I dare not lift my eyes lest anyone should know of it:
In the company of elders, waves of emotion sweeping through me,
I draw my dress across each limb to hide it carefully.

With softest steps I walk about the house—
Kind fate has so far hidden my secret shame—
But rapture fills my heart and body, my girdle slips!
Vidyāpati is dazed! What can he say?

SAKHĪ-SHIKSHĀ-BACANĀDI

XXV.

Sakhī:         Happy is your birth, and blest your beauty!
For all are crying upon Kānu, Kānu,
And he is laden deep with love of you.

The longing cloud desires the cātak,
The moon desires the partridge,
The vine upholds the full-grown tree,—
There is amazement in my heart!

When there you stood with hanging hair,
Across your breast but half its veil,
Then Kānu, seeing all, was sorely troubled,—
Tell me, dear damsel, what is your intent?

When you laughed and showed your teeth,
With hand on hand held over head,
And your unconscious glances pierced his heart,—
Then seeing him, you took a maiden on your lap!

Such is my tale of you, O beauty,
Advise you thereupon:
You are the idol of his heart, and he a frame forlorn,
Says Vidyāpati the poet.

XXVI.

Sakhī:         Hearken, hearken, O virtuous Rādhā:
Murdering Mādhava, what is the good you will gain?

By day the moon is pale and lonely,
Likewise he waxes thinner and thinner:
His rings and bracelets slip,—
I think he must remake them many times.

I cannot understand your ways;
The poet rests his head upon his hands!

XXVII.

Sakhī:         Make your decision, Beauty:
Kāna is waxen wood for want of you,
Sometimes he laughs for little cause:
What would he say with passionate words?

Very sorry are his sighs,
He cries, O Wel-a-way:
His helpless body trembles,
None can hold him still.

Saith Vidyāpati: Dear maiden,
Witness