Sansthānaka. Well, on one condition.
Courtier. And what is that?
Sansthānaka. He musht shling mud in, without making the water dirty. Or better yet, he musht make the water into a ball, and shling it into the mud.
Courtier. What incredible folly!
The patient earth is burdened by
So many a fool, so many a drone,
Whose thoughts and deeds are all awry—
These trees of flesh, these forms of stone. 6
[The monk makes faces at Sansthānaka.]
Sansthānaka. What does he mean?
Courtier. He praises you.
Sansthānaka. Praise me shome more! Praise me again! [The monk does so, then exit.]
Courtier. See how beautiful the garden is, you jackass.
See yonder trees, adorned with fruit and flowers,
O'er which the clinging creepers interlace;
The watchmen guard them with the royal powers;
They seem like men whom loving wives embrace. 7
Sansthānaka. A good deshcription, shir.
The ground is mottled with a lot of flowers;
The blosshom freight bends down the lofty trees;
And, hanging from the leafy tree-top bowers,
The monkeys bob, like breadfruit in the breeze. 8
Courtier. Will you be seated on this stone bench, you jackass?
Sansthānaka. I am sheated. [They seat themselves.] Do you know, shir, I remember that Vasantasenā even yet. She is like an inshult. I can't get her out of my mind.
Courtier. [Aside.] He remembers her even after such a repulse. For indeed,
