MATHAVYA.—­I can quite understand it must require something surpassingly attractive to excite the admiration of such a great man as you.

KING.—­I will describe her, my dear friend, in a few words—­
    Man’s all-wise Maker, wishing to create
    A faultless form, whose matchless symmetry
    Should far transcend Creation’s choicest works,
    Did call together by his mighty will,
    And garner up in his eternal mind,
    A bright assemblage of all lovely things:—­
    And then, as in a picture, fashion them
    Into one perfect and ideal form. 
    Such the divine, the wondrous prototype,
    Whence her fair shape was moulded into being.

MATHAVYA.—­If that’s the case, she must indeed throw all other beauties into the shade.

KING.—­To my mind she really does. 
    This peerless maid is like a fragrant flower,
    Whose perfumed breath has never been diffused;
    A tender bud, that no profaning hand
    Has dared to sever from its parent stalk;
    A gem of priceless water, just released
    Pure and unblemished from its glittering bed. 
    Or may the maiden haply be compared
    To sweetest honey, that no mortal lip
    Has sipped; or, rather to the mellowed fruit
    Of virtuous actions in some former birth,
    Now brought to full perfection?  Lives the man
    Whom bounteous heaven has destined to espouse her?

MATHAVYA.—­Make haste, then, to her aid; you have no time to lose, if you don’t wish this fruit of all the virtues to drop into the mouth of some greasy-headed rustic of devout habits.

KING.—­The lady is not her own mistress, and her foster-father is not at home.

MATHAVYA.—­Well, but tell me, did she look at all kindly upon you?

KING.—­Maidens brought up in a hermitage are naturally shy and reserved;
but for all that,
    She did look towards me, though she quick withdrew
    Her stealthy glances when she met my gaze;
    She smiled upon me sweetly, but disguised
    With maiden grace the secret of her smiles. 
    Coy love was half unveiled; then, sudden checked
    By modesty, left half to be divined.

MATHAVYA.—­Why, of course, my dear friend, you never could seriously expect that at the very first sight she would fall over head and ears in love with you, and without more ado come and sit in your lap.

KING.—­When we parted from each other, she betrayed her liking for me by
clearer indications, but still with the utmost modesty. 
    Scarce had the fair one from my presence passed,
    When, suddenly, without apparent cause,
    She stopped, and counterfeiting pain, exclaimed,
    “My foot is wounded by this prickly grass.” 
    Then glancing at me tenderly, she feigned
    Another charming pretext for delay,
    Pretending that a bush had caught her robe,
    And turned as if to disentangle it.