Gita Govinda 2.4.19

2.4.19

Her hair bristles; she groans; she laments; she trembles; she languishes;
she meditates; she wanders wildly; she droops; she falls; she starts up; she even faints.
In such a fever born of the Bodiless One, how should the lovely-bodied girl survive, unless by your sweet love
you show favor, O you who resemble the physician of heaven? Otherwise, Death will not let her go.