and bright
As an autumnal moonbeam, should be traced.

MA[T.]HAVYA.

Pray, why does the Queen cover her lips with the tips of her
fingers, bright as the blossom of a lily, as if she were afraid
of something? [_Looking more closely_.] Oh! I see; a vagabond
bee, intent on thieving honey from the flowers, has mistaken her
mouth for a rosebud, and is trying to settle upon it.

KING.

A bee! drive off the impudent insect, will you?

MA[T.]HAVYA.

That's your business. Your royal prerogative gives you power over
all offenders.

KING.

Very true. Listen to me, thou favourite guest of flowering plants;
why give thyself the trouble of hovering here?

See where thy partner sits on yonder flower,
And waits for thee ere she will sip its dew.

SANUMATI. [_Aside_.

A most polite way of warning him off!

MA[T.]HAVYA.

You'll find the obstinate creature is not to be sent about his
business so easily as you think.

KING.

Dost thou presume to disobey? Now hear me:--

An thou but touch the lips of my beloved,
Sweet as the opening blossom, whence I quaffed
In happier days love's nectar, I will place thee
Within the hollow of yon lotus cup,
And there imprison thee for thy presumption.

MA[T.]HAVYA.

He must be bold indeed not to show any fear when you threaten him
with such an awful punishment. [_Smiling, aside_.] He is stark mad,
that's clear; and I believe, by keeping him company, I am beginning
to talk almost as wildly. [_Aloud_.] Look, it is only a painted bee.

KING.

Painted? impossible!

SANUMATI. [_Aside_.

Even I did not perceive it; how much less should he!

KING.

Oh! my dear friend, why were you so ill-natured as to tell me the
truth?

While all entranced, I gazed upon her picture,
My loved one seemed to live before my eyes
Till every fibre of my being thrilled
With rapturous emotion. Oh! 'twas cruel
To dissipate the day-dream, and transform
The blissful vision to a lifeless image.

[_Sheds tears_.

SANUMATI. [_Aside_.

Separated lovers are very difficult to please; but he seems more
difficult than usual.

KING.

Alas! my dear Ma[T.]Havya, why am I doomed to be the victim of
perpetual disappointment?

Vain is the hope of meeting her in dreams,
For slumber night