Tending me long with pain and care;

Now in the hour of fruitage she

Has lost that son, ah, woe is me.

O Lakshmaṇ, may no matron e'er

A son so doomed to sorrow bear

As I, my mother's heart who rend

With anguish that can never end.

The Sáriká,[325] methinks, possessed

More love than glows in Ráma's breast.

Who, as the tale is told to us,