her, with eyes agitated by passion: flung away time and again and coming back to her body, the bee made her perform a dance.
You with the lotus face! Embankments that prevent a spreading in all directions serve as a decoration for rivers, whose waters are naturally wild—and for your eyes conveying all your feelings, a constraint that prevents them from looking into the face of all.
You scoundrel! She has been deceived by you, and her embarrassment restricts her movements, even by offering a lot of money, she will not come now—like the figure of a board-game that, placed on the board, hardly moved due to low counts of the dice, and even after many games does not reach the goal.
Who is that man of fortunate birth, whose sexual success even in a night of the month Magha that noise of the zone proclaims, carried far and wide by the frosty wind?
What would be impossible for love to achieve? She who used to be frightened even by a snake’s skin is now sleeping on the pillow that the hood of the serpent around Shiva’s arm provides her.*
160
For a man who has been cheated by prostitutes with a love that was as false as counterfeit gold, the grief over the loss of his money is but small, compared with the mighty fun people make of him.
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