He who single-handed on his chariot conquered gods, men, and serpents is now the young dance-master of King Virata's daughters. He of immeasurable spirit, who once sated Jatavedas at Khandava, is now Partha within the inner apartments, like fire shut up in a well. That bull among men, of whom enemies always stood in fear — Dhananjaya now sits in a guise scorned by the world. At the twang of his bowstring enemies once trembled; now joyful women sit around him, listening to the sound of his song. He on whose head a crown once shone like the sun — that same Dhananjaya today wears the ends of his hair braided into a plait. In him, great of soul, once dwelt all the divine weapons; the vessel of all knowledge now wears earrings. Thousands of kings, unmatched in splendor, could not overstep him in battle, as the great ocean cannot overstep its shore. And this same young dance-master of King Virata's daughters sits, hidden by his disguise, as an attendant of the maidens. At the rumble of his chariot the earth once trembled, with its mountains, forests, and all creatures moving and unmoving, Bhima. At his birth Kunti's grief vanished; and today your younger brother, Bhimasena, makes me grieve. Seeing him adorned with bracelets, earrings, and shell ornaments on his arms, my heart sinks. Seeing Arjuna with his hair braided, mighty of bow, surrounded by maidens, my heart sinks, Bhima. When I see this godlike one, surrounded by maidens as a rutting elephant is surrounded by cow-elephants, when I see Partha standing amid the music before Virata, lord of the Matsyas, the very directions vanish from me. Surely the noble Kunti does not know what distress Dhananjaya has fallen into, how Ajatashatru, the Kaurava, is sunk in this wretched game of dice.