He has gone into the trysting place, full of all desired bliss, O you
    with lovely hips delay no more
  O go forth now and seek him out, him the master of your heart, him
    endowed with passion’s lovely form.

  On fallen feathers of the birds, on leaves about the forest floor, he
    lies excited making there his bed,
  And he gazes out upon the path, looks about with trembling eyes, anxious,
    looking out for your approach.

  There on that bed of tender leaves, O lotus-eyed, embrace his hips, his
    naked hips from whence the girdle drops,
  Those hips from whence the garment falls, those loins which are a
    treasure heap, the fountain and the source of all delight.

Radha would willingly go but she is now so sick with love that she can no longer move.  The girl has, therefore, to go once more to Krishna and describe Radha’s state.

  In secret on every side she sees you
  Drinking the honied sweet of her lips. 
  Where Radha stays now she wilts away,
  She may live no longer without your skill,
  Again and again she keeps telling her friend,
  ‘O why must Krishna delay to come?’

  Of her jewels abundant her limbs she adorns and spreads out her bed—­
  Imagining you on her fluttering couch of leaves—­
  And so to indulge, in a hundred ways, in the sport of love
  She is fully resolved, arranging her bed with every adornment;
  Not another night may that beautiful girl endure without you. 
  Why so much apathy, Krishna, beside the fig tree? 
  O brother, why not go to the pasture of eyes, the abode of bliss?

Despite this message, however, Krishna still delays and Radha, who has half expected him, endures still greater anguish.

  My lover has failed to come to the trysting place,
  It is perhaps that his mind is dazed, or perhaps that he went to another
    woman
  Or lured perhaps by festive folk, that he delays,
  Or perhaps along the dark fringe of the forest he wanders lost.

She imagines him toying with another cowgirl.

  A certain girl, excelling in her charms unrivalled, dallies with the
    sportive Krishna
  Her face, a moon, is fondled by the fluttering petals in her hair,
  The exciting moisture of his lips induces langour in her limbs,
  Her earrings bruise her cheeks while dancing with the motion of her
    head,
  Her girdle by the tremor of her moving hips is made to tinkle,
  She utters senseless sounds, through fever of her love,
  He decorates with crimson flowers her curly tresses, curls which are
    upon her lively face a mass of clouds,
  Flowers with crimson flashings lovely in the forest of her tresses, haunt
    of that wild creature love’s desire.

And thinking of her own hapless state, Radha contrasts it bitterly with that of the fortunate girl.