Sharp pangs of grief smote Sítá through:
Nor could she look upon her lord
With eyes from which the torrents poured.
And Ráma strove with tender care
To soothe the weeping dame's despair,
And then, with piercing woe distressed,
The mournful Lakshmaṇ thus addressed:
“Brother, I pray thee bring for me
The pressed fruit of the Ingudí,
And a bark mantle fresh and new,