Purūravas lamenteth:
Alas, my wife! Stay thy steps, O dread woman—tarry but a while, That we may yet trade words before all is lost.

For these thoughts, left unsaid, shall not gladden us, No, not even in days far hence.

Urvaśī answereth:
And what wouldst thou have me do with thy speech?
I have gone forth, as the foremost light of dawn.
Return thee, Purūravas, unto thy house again.
I am as hard to grasp as the wind.

Purūravas crieth out:
She is as an arrow loosed from Beauty’s quiver, Winning kine with her flight, bringing in hundreds.

Under no man’s will shall she be tamed—
She flasheth like lightning, and her storm-borne cries Ring out like a lamb’s bleating.

She gave strength, aye, a good gift,
To her father-by-law, at each dawning, as he desired it, From the house across the way.

She found a dwelling she loved.
Day and night, she was pierced by my rod.

Urvaśī rebuketh:
Thrice a day thou didst pierce me so—
And raised thy rod, though I sought it not.
I followed thy will, Purūravas.
Thou wast king of my flesh—thou, so-called hero.

Purūravas declaimeth:
The shining band of heaven’s dames, favored and fair, Twined like lotuses afloat—ever shifting—

They streamed as salves of red,
And like kine of milk they bellowed for beauty.

Urvaśī recalleth:
When this son of ours was born,
Women stood round, and rivers, murmuring low, Poured strength into him.

As for great battle, for the smiting of Dasyus, The gods girded thee, Purūravas, with might.

Purūravas mourneth:
When I, a man, came nigh those unearthly women, And saw them cast off their robes—

They shrank from me like shy deer,
Like steeds brushing the yoke of the chariot.

Urvaśī remarketh:
When a mortal would fondle the deathless maidens, And moves amidst their cries, thinking it welcome—

They preen like ducks, and dart like playful colts, Nipping and fleet.

Purūravas reflecteth:
She who fled like lightning in the storm— That watery nymph who gave me delight— From her was born a son, noble of blood, Springing from the water.

Urvaśī giveth unto Āyu a long span of years.

Urvaśī chasteneth:
To shield and guard wast thou born—yet thou hast wielded force against me, Purūravas.

I gave thee counsel on that day, full knowing, Yet thou wouldst not heed me.

Why speak still, when thy words yield no gain?

Purūravas yearneth:
When shall my son, my own, seek out his sire?
When shall he weep a tear, rolling like a wheel, And know his father?

What sunders a pair knit in soul,
While yet the hearth-fire burneth in the home of the elders?

Urvaśī relenteth not:
I shall answer him when his tear rolleth down.
He shall wail like a wheel for gentle care.
That thing of thine, which is with us,
I shall send unto thee.
But go—go thee hence—
For thou shalt not win me, thou fool.

Purūravas despairing:
And if she—favored of the gods—should fly away this day, To return nevermore, gone to the farthest bounds...

Then let him lie in the lap of Undoing—
Or be devoured by the hungry wolves...

Urvaśī speaketh bitterly:
O Purūravas, die not. Flee not to death.
Let not the wolves, ruthless, devour thee.
There is no true bonding with women—
Their hearts are as hyenas’.

When I wandered in another form ‘mongst mortal men, And shared their nights four autumns long,

I took but one drop of ghee each day—
And that alone hath left me filled even now.

Purūravas pleadeth:
She who filleth the space ‘twixt heaven and earth, The measurer of the twilight realm—Urvaśī—

I, best among men, would bring her under my sway.
If kindness bringeth reward, then turn thee back— My heart is burnt within me.

Thus the gods speak unto thee, Purūravas— For thus hath it fallen:

Thou art bound to death.
Thy son shall offer to the gods their due, And thou, likewise, shalt find joy in heaven.