She who is pleased in love, my friend, by Krishna,
By him whose winsome mouth is a lotus opened up
in bloom,
She’s not wounded by Love’s darts of doom.

She who is pleased in love, my friend, by Krishna,
By him whose melodious words are nectars soft and sweet,
She’s not scorched by a southern wind’s cold heat.

She who is pleased in love, my friend, by Krishna,
By him whose hands and feet are like hibiscus sprays,
She’s not tossed and turned at night by frosty lunar rays.

7.35

She who is pleased in love, my friend, by Krishna,
By him as darkly beautiful as a cloud brimful with rain,
She’s not heartbroken from enduring separation’s pain.

She who is pleased in love, my friend, by Krishna,
By him whose radiant robes are like gold streaks on
black stones,
She’s not laughed at by her friends when with love
she moans.

He who is pleased in love, my friend, by Krishna,
By him who remains the finest youth among beings
anywhere,
She is not tormented by such pitiful despair.