Mádh. The king has supreme power over all offenders.
Dushm. O male bee, who approachest the lovely inhabitants of a flowery grove, why dost thou expose thyself to the pain of being rejected?—See where thy female sits on a blossom, and, though thirsty, waits for thy return: without thee she will not taste its nectar.
Misr. [Aside.] A wild, but apt, address!
Mádh. The perfidy of male bees is proverbial.
Dushm. [Angrily.] Shouldst thou touch, O bee, the lip of my darling, ruddy as a fresh leaf on which no wind has yet breathed, a lip from which I drank sweetness in the banquet of love, thou shalt, by my order, be imprisoned in the center of a lotos.—Dost thou still disobey me?
Mádh. How can he fail to obey, since you denounce so severe a punishment?—[Aside, laughing.]—He is stark mad with love and affliction; whilst I, by keeping him company, shall be as mad as he without either.
Dushm. After my positive injunction, art thou still unmoved?
Misr. [Aside.] How does excess of passion alter even the wife!
Mádh. Why, my friend, it is only a painted bee.
Misr. [Aside.] Oh! I perceive his mistake: it shows the perfection of the art. But why does he continue musing?
Dushm. What ill-natured remark was that?—