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Begin with the name that opens the verse, for it is itself an obeisance laid so low that nothing afterward could be too small to ask. O Rādhe, You are called śrī-gopendra-kumāra-mohana-mahā-vidyā: the great enchantress, the very potency by which the prince of the cowherds is bewitched. Think of what is being said. There is a charming that other powers can manage; even Prajeśa-nandinī Durgā, with Her ten mahā-vidyā illusions, can throw a spell over the mind of Lord Śiva Himself. But Kṛṣṇa is the one whom no spell touches, the one who enchants all. He enchants even Mahādeva, as the Bhāgavata tells in its Eighth Canto; He enchants even the Bhūmā-Puruṣa, Lord Nārāyaṇa, as the Tenth Canto shows; and most astonishing of all, He enchants His own Self, for the Third Canto sings vismāpanaṁ svasya ca saubhagardheḥ, that the half-glimpsed flood of His own beauty stuns even Him, and the Caitanya-caritāmṛta repeats it, rūpa dekhi āpanāra, kṛṣṇera hoilo camatkāra: seeing His own form, Kṛṣṇa was struck with wonder. And yet, O Rādhe, this very self-amazing, all-amazing Kṛṣṇa is the one You enchant, and not in one way but in innumerable ways. Who, then, can such a cry be addressed to? Only the one greater than the greatest. So Śrīpāda bows as low as a creature can bow, and only then dares to ask. And see how the sweetness is not hidden away but spills out everywhere: sphuran-mādhurī, Your sweetness is manifest, visible, breaking forth from You. It pours first through Your eyes. O Rādhe, sāra-sphāra-rasāmbu-rāśi-sahaja-prasyandi-netrāñcale: from the very corners of Your eyes a vast and extending ocean, an ocean of the essence of sweet rasa, flows of its own accord, sahaja, with no contriving, the way a spring gives water because that is its nature. Those sidelong glances are kāruṇyārdra-kaṭākṣa-bhaṅgi, gestures melting and wet with compassion, ardrā, soaked through with mercy until they drip. And above them the lotus of Your face, madhura-smerānanāmbhoruhe, opens in a sweet, soft smile. This is no cold sovereign sweetness. The tradition says it plainly: Śrī Rādhā is compassion itself, karuṇā given a body, and that body melts out of its own pity. She is koṭi-dāsī-vatsalā, tender as a mother to Her millions of maidservants, and when She turns those eye-corners upon them and smiles in that sweet way, each one feels blessed past telling. Now feel the man who is speaking. In his outward consciousness Śrīpāda looks at himself and finds nothing to bring. He cannot loosen his ordinary moods; he cannot stand firm. "I am not fixed with any determination in the worship of Śrī Rādhā's lotus feet," he thinks; "how could one such as I ever attain this most precious of all services?" The heart goes dark. And then, into that darkness, the memory of Her mercy suddenly lights up, the way a lamp is carried into a black room. This, the tradition teaches, is exactly how the aspirant should learn to wait: absorbed not in the ledger of his unfitness but in hope of the Lord's mercy. For when a devotee truly remembers the compassion of Rādhā and Mādhava, he forgets, blessedly, how unqualified he is. Rūpa Gosvāmī fixes this very turn for us in his Kārpaṇya-Pañjikā-Stotram, those three verses (eleven through thirteen) that are pure beggary made beautiful: yogyatā me na kācid vāṁ kṛpā-lābhāya yadyapi, mahā-kṛpālu-maulitvāt tathāpi kurutaṁ kṛpām. "Though I have no fitness at all to receive Your mercy, still be merciful, for You are the crowns of all merciful persons." And he presses further: the truly merciful are seen to grow restless with mercy even toward the unworthy, even toward the offender, ayogye sāparādhe'pi dṛśyante kṛpayākulāḥ. "O You whom the very masters of the world worship, I have not in me even the faintest shadow of that devotion which is mercy's cause; yet because You are the masters of all great pastimes, mahā-līleśvaratayā, even so, here and now, be pleased with me." This is the secret of the two states: when a devotee dwells on his own unworthiness he grows desperate, sad, anxious; but when he dwells on the Lord's mercy he is filled with joy, with hope, with prayer. And that joyful, hoping, praying state is itself a desirable stage of devotion. It is into that state that Śrīpāda climbs before he speaks. So at last comes the cry. Hā hā svāmini rādhike, mayi kṛpā-dṛṣṭiṁ manāk nikṣipa: "Alas, alas, O my mistress Rādhike, cast on me even a slight merciful glance." Behind it is the whole helplessness of one who has run out of every other door: "I have no one else but You in all this world; if You are not merciful to me, then where shall I go?" And the plea finds its sweetest argument in Her own name. O Rādhe, You are Rādhikā because You are Kṛṣṇa's ārādhikā, His worshipper, the one forever absorbed in serving Him. Then surely, Śrīpāda reasons through his tears, in that endless worship You will have need of maidservants; so take even this wretched, unfit girl along, let her be one more pair of hands in Your service of Kṛṣṇa. He does not ask to be loved for himself; he asks to be useful to Her love. The old singers caught the same note. One sings: he svāmini rādhārāṇī, vṛndāvana-vilāsini, govinda-mohana mahāvidye, mādhurya-rasābdhi yāra, netrāñcale paracāra, padma-mukhī pramodinī rādhe, "O mistress Rādhārāṇī who sports in Vṛndāvana, great enchantress of Govinda, lotus-faced fountain of delight, the play of Your eyelashes is an ocean of sweetness." And Śrī Prabodhānanda himself sings: he gaurāṅgi boḍo raṅgī, kāruṇya-kaṭākṣa-bhaṅgī, madhura madhura smitānanā, kṛpā-diṭhe mora pāne, cāho rāi kṛṣṇa-priyatamā, "O golden-limbed, ever-playful girl, with Your compassion-laden sidelong glance and Your sweetly, sweetly smiling face, O Rāi, Kṛṣṇa's dearest, look toward me with a merciful eye." It is the one prayer of the whole verse, sung again and again: turn those melting eyes, just for an instant, this way.