The Recognition of Śakuntalā 7.11

7.11

valmīkārdhanimagnamūrtir urasā saṃdaṣṭasarpatvacā
kaṇṭhe jīrṇalatāpratānavalayenātyarthasaṃpīḍitaḥ /
aṃsavyāpi śakuntanīḍanicitaṃ bibhrajjaṭāmaṇḍalam
yatra sthāṇur ivācalo munir asāv abhyarkabimbaṃ sthitaḥ //
rājā namas te kaṣṭatapase /
mātaliḥ (saṃyatapragrahaṃ rathaṃ kṛtvā) etāv aditiparivardhitamandāravṛkṣaṃ prajāpater āśramaṃ praviṣṭau svaḥ /
rājā svargād adhikataraṃ nirvṛtisthānam amṛtahradam ivāvagāḍho 'smi /
mātaliḥ (rathaṃ sthāpayitvā) avataratv āyuṣmān /

Where stands the hermit, horridly austere,
Whom clinging vines are choking, tough and sere;
Half-buried in an ant-hill that has grown
About him, standing post-like and alone;
Sun-staring with dim eyes that know no rest,
The dead skin of a serpent on his breast:
So long he stood unmoved, insensate there
That birds build nests within his mat of hair.

King (gazing). All honour to one who mortifies the flesh so terribly.

Matali (checking the chariot). We have entered the hermitage of the ancient sage, whose wife Aditi tends the coral-trees.

King. Here is deeper contentment than in heaven. I seem plunged in a pool of nectar.

Matali (stopping the chariot). Descend, O King.