Those who praise me, even when afflicted by desire and suffering, truly find peace within themselves. Accept this truth, and let us again offer our praises to the god. Indeed, let it be so—there should be no other way. It is said that Brahmā himself took up the golden, tawny liṅga. Among those who followed, the third was Kālavadana, and the fourth was Kapālin. Kapālin’s disciple became known as Gopāyana, and his disciple was the king Ṛṣabha, who was called Somakeśvara. After him, his disciple was a Vaiśya named Krātheśvara, O sage. Krātheśvara’s disciple was Karṇodara, a Śūdra by birth, but a great ascetic in his own right. Having fulfilled all four stages of life, Karṇodara departed for his own abode. At a certain time, an archer stood at a distance before him, preparing to torment him. The archer saw Smara descending from the tip of his topknot down to his feet. Then, O Brahmin, Smara began to burn, starting from his feet and rising upward like a raging forest fire. The archer cast aside his excellent bow, which broke into five pieces. From the remains of that bow, a campaka tree arose, rich in fragrance and perfect in form. From that, the kesara forest was born, known as bakula, O sage. There also arose the lovely pāṭalā, adorned with bhringarāja flowers. The jāti plant appeared, shining with the rays of the moon, clustered in five groups. From that heap of earth, O sage, various kinds of mallī plants sprang forth. Those endowed with jāti, and those personally fashioned by the god, also appeared. Thousands of fruit-bearing trees came into being. By the grace of Hara, foods fit for the best of gods were produced. For the sake of these flowers, the imperishable one went to Mount Śiśira to perform austerities. Then, praised by the gods and worshipped by the foremost of celestials, he took up the great bow called Anaṅga. At this moment, the Gandharva, smiling, spoke these gentle words: "Sit here." Yet, even Vasanta, the lord of spring, quickly fell into deep anxiety, O great sage. The blessed one said to Vasanta, "Come here, stay." Then, from his own thigh, he took a maiden with golden limbs and created her. Kāmadeva wondered to himself, "Who is she? Is this my beloved Rati?" She possessed a fine nose, a graceful line of lips, and her gaze was intent and unwavering. Her full breasts shone, pressed closely together like noble friends meeting. Her smooth abdomen gleamed, adorned with a delicate line of hair. She shone like a swarm of bees moving from the riverbank to a lotus pond, as if, in the churning of the ocean of fortune, Mandara mountain was bound by a serpent. Her beautiful form radiated like the filament of a lotus, and her feet glowed as if painted with red lac. Overcome with desire, Kāmadeva wondered who could resist such beauty, O sage. Was this, perhaps, the very capital city of the lord of desire established here? Perhaps, frightened by the heat of the sun’s rays, she had come seeking refuge. At that moment, Mādhava stood, composed in deep meditation, serene as a sage.