First Viśvanātha unpacks the label the editor gave this verse — the heroine 'bashfully willing in love.' He reads it out as a bahuvrīhi: rati, he says, means the matter of union with her lover; and in that she is 'prasanna,' willing — but 'sa-vrīḍa,' with shyness folded in. So the type being illustrated is the girl who consents to love, yet whose consent is shot through with shame. The verse to come will show exactly that mix.

Viśvanātha sets the scene. It is morning, and Kṛṣṇa is speaking to his friend Subala — telling him the 'dvitrāṇi' verse. So the whole verse is not narration by the poet but Kṛṣṇa's own confession to a friend, the morning after, of how the girl overcame him. That framing colors every line: this is a lover recounting his own defeat.

Here is the śleṣa, and Viśvanātha keeps both meanings live at once. Read one way — splitting it vilāsa + unmukhī, 'facing toward love-play' — it means she was longing for union; this is the pun on 'autsukya,' eagerness. Read the other way, 'vilāsa' is the name of a specific ornament, one of a woman's natural graces, and 'un-mukhī' is 'having a lifted, radiant face': she whose face is made beautiful by the grace called vilāsa. One word, two pictures: the eager girl, and the girl whose face shines with a named charm. Both stand; the poet meant you to hear them together.

Viśvanātha spells out the verse's compound. Her trembling ('kampa') sets her body rippling; her vine-slender limbs ('aṅga-latikā') move 'taraṅgāyamāṇa' — like waves running across water. He simply turns the verse's 'taraṅgat' (surging) into the plainer 'taraṅgāyamāṇa' (behaving like waves), so we see the physical picture: a shiver traveling down her body like a ripple.

Now Viśvanātha stages the turn as a whole action. 'Sadyaḥ' — that very instant, he says. It was as if his gaze fell on her like a blow ('darśana-āghāta') — the moment his eyes met her, she recoiled. So she twisted aside, turned her face away, put her back to her lover, and with her left hand drew her veil across. He has read the single verse-word 'tiryag-vivṛttā' into a small sequence of shy movements. 'That,' he says, 'is the sense.'

Viśvanātha names what is happening emotionally. In that one instant four transient feelings collide: śaṅkā (fear that they'll be seen), lajjā (shyness), vega (the sudden inner rush), and autsukya (eager longing). When several such passing feelings knot together at one moment, rasa-śāstra calls it a 'sandhi,' a junction. So the verse is not just pretty description — it is a textbook case of a sandhi of transient emotions.

Viśvanātha now reads L3 as loaded with suggestion. Each word does hidden work. 'Bhūyaḥ' (again) tells you she had left and had to be won a second time. 'Snigdha' (affectionate) shows the friends love her. And the two plurals — 'girām' (words) and 'parimalaiḥ' (fragrances) — signal that there were many of them, many words, many efforts. From all this the poet suggests, without saying it, everything the friends did to bring her back: their coaxing and humility, their affection, their reporting of the sweet things Kṛṣṇa had said, their running back and forth, their gentle talk and little gifts. None of that is stated; it is all 'vyañjita,' suggested.

Now Viśvanātha starts building a picture out of that odd phrase 'fragrances of words.' Since fragrance belongs to flowers, the word 'parimalaiḥ' quietly turns the friends' words into flower-clusters ('puṣpa-mañjarī'). The words are blossoms. This is the first piece of an extended metaphor he is about to assemble.

The picture grows. If the words are flowers, then the affectionate friends who speak them become the tender creepers ('komala-vallī') on which flowers grow. So: the sakhīs are vines, and their words are the blossoms on those vines. Viśvanātha is laying the plants of a garden before naming who comes to it.

Now the picture is complete. If the words are flowers and the friends are vines, then the heroine, drawn toward that fragrance, becomes a she-bee ('bhramarī'), and Kṛṣṇa becomes the he-bee ('bhramara'). Viśvanātha says these two bee-identities are 'brought in' — carried in by the same flower-imagery. The whole garden now maps cleanly: friends = vines, their words = blossoms, Śyāmalā = she-bee, Kṛṣṇa = he-bee.

Viśvanātha finishes the figure. Read it all in bee-terms and you get: 'Greedy for the fragrance, the she-bee came — and the he-bee enjoyed her.' Because the lovers have been wholly turned into bees, this suggests two figures of speech at once. One is atiśayokti (hyperbole), where the subject is so completely superimposed that Śyāmalā and Kṛṣṇa disappear entirely into 'she-bee' and 'he-bee.' The other is aprastuta-praśaṁsā, where you speak of the off-topic thing (the bees) precisely to convey the real topic (the two lovers). Both are 'dhvanita' — sounded by suggestion, never stated.

Viśvanātha now flags the last phrase for comment — 'hāri-hariṇī-netrā,' the doe-eyed clause. He simply cites it as the next thing to explain, which he does in the following line.

Viśvanātha closes on the eyes. 'Hāri-hariṇī-netrā' means: the restless flicker at the corners of her eyes, just as it was in that moment, was 'savored' by Kṛṣṇa — he tasted it like a relish. So the doe-eyed phrase is not mere description; it names the one thing he carried away and is still relishing the morning after. The verse ends where his 'stolen heart' began — with those darting eyes.