O Ubbari, my queen of swarthy hue,
Lithe as a shoot of fair moringa tree,
That dost thy limbs with sandal oil bedew,
How should I live, bereft of sight of thee?
Yea death itself than this less grievous far would be!

While he was still murmuring these words, he died and was born again in hell. The priest so ambitious of power could not save him, nor could he save himself by his own power, and as soon as he died, his army broke up and fled.

The Master, having ended his lesson, thus identified the Birth: "At that time the young prince Bodhi was the marauding king, Devadatta was Pingiya, and I myself was the world-famed teacher."