I forget it. It is the one
desire of my wife to make her whole body jingle, from head to
foot, in praise of your munificence; but, alas, the sound is too
feeble for want of proper ornaments.

I understand you, Pundit. Vizier! Order ornaments from the Court
Jeweller for Sruti-bhushan's wife immediately.

And, King, while he is about it, would you tell the Vizier, that
we are both of us distracted in our devotions by house-repairs.
Let him ask the royal masons to put up a thoroughly well-built
house, where we can practise our devotions in peace.

Very well, Pundit.--Vizier!

Yes, Your Majesty.

Give the order at once.

Sire, your treasury is empty. Funds are wanting.

Pooh! That's an old story. I hear that every year. It is your
business to increase the funds, and mine to increase the wants.
What do you say, Sruti-bhushan?

King, I cannot blame the Vizier. He is looking after your
treasures in this world. We are looking after your treasures in
the next. So where he sees want, we see wealth. Now, if you
would only let me dive deep once more into the _Ocean of
Renunciation_ you will find it written as follows:

_That King's coffers are well stored,
Where wealth alone on worth is poured._

Pundit, your company is most valuable.

Your Majesty, Sruti-bhushan knows its value to a farthing. Come,
Sruti-bhushan, make haste. Let us collect all the wealth you need
for your Treasury of Devotion. For wealth has the ugly habit of
diminishing fast. If we are not quick about it, little will
remain to enable us to observe our renunciation with all
splendour.

Yes, Vizier, let us go at once. (_To the King._) When he is
making such a fuss about a tiny matter like this, it is best to
pacify him first and then return to you afterwards.

Pundit, I am afraid that, some day, you will leave my royal
protection altogether, and retire to the forest.

King, so long as I find contentment in a King's palace, it is as
good as a hermitage for my peace of mind. I must now leave you,
King. Vizier, let us go.

[_The Vizier and Pundit go out._

Oh, dear me! Whatever shall I do? Here's the Poet coming. I am
afraid he'll make me break all my good resolutions.--Oh, my grey
hairs, cover my ears, so that the Poet's allurements may not
enter.

Why, King, what's the matter? I hear you want to send away your
Poet.

What have I to do with poets, when poetry brings me this parting
message?

What parting message?

Look at thi