Dushm. [Gazing on it.] Yes; that is her face; those are her beautiful eyes; those her lips embellished with smiles, and surpassing the red lustre of the Carcandhu fruit; her mouth seems, though painted, to speak, and her conntenance darts beams of affection blended with a variety of melting tints.
Mádh. Truly, my friend, it is a picture sweet as love itself: my eye glides up and down to feast on every particle of it; and it gives me as much delight as if I were actually conversing with the living Sacontalá.
Misr. [Aside.] An exquisite piece of painting!—My beloved friend seems to stand before my eyes.
Dushm. Yet the picture is infinitely below the original; and my warm fancy, by supplying its imperfections, represents, in some degree, the loveliness of my darling.
Misr. [Aside.] His ideas are suitable to his excessive love and severe penitence.
Dushm. Sighing! Alas! I rejected her when she lately approached me, and now I do homage to her picture; like a traveller who negligently passes by a clear and full rivulet, and soon ardently thirsts for a false appearance of water on the sandy desert.
Mádh. There are so many female figures on this canvas, that I cannot well distinguish the lady Sacontalá.
Misr. [Aside.] The old man is ignorant of