रावणदर्शनेन सीतायाः भयं विषादश्च

At that very moment the blameless princess saw Rāvaṇa, lord of the rākṣasas, coming towards her, rich in beauty and youth and adorned with the finest ornaments, and at the mere sight of him Vaidehī trembled like a plantain in a gale. In the last sarga Hanumān, hidden in the tree, watched Rāvaṇa arrive; now the poet turns our eyes to Sītā. In her fear the large-eyed lady of lovely complexion covered her belly with her thighs and her breasts with her arms, and sat down and wept — the natural gesture of a woman shielding herself from a stranger. Ten-necked Rāvaṇa saw Sītā, guarded by troops of rākṣasīs, wretched and tormented with grief, sunk in her sea of sorrow like a ship foundering in the ocean. Firm in her vows, she sat on the bare ground, with neither seat nor covering, like a branch lopped from a great tree and fallen to the earth — cut off from her root, Rāma, and yet the sap of life not gone from her. In these first verses the poet sets together three pictures, of fear, of modesty and of misery, which form the background of the conversation to come. Rāvaṇa is adorned, Sītā soiled — a contrast drawn deliberately: on one side the pride of wealth, on the other the austerity of a faithful wife. Rāvaṇa's beauty, youth and ornaments stir in her no attraction, only fear. And the reader should remember that Hanumān, hidden in the tree, sees all of this.

Grime was the only adornment on her limbs; she who deserved ornaments had none. Like a lotus stalk smeared with mud, she shone and did not shine — shining with her natural beauty, dimmed by the dirt. She seemed to be travelling to Rāma, lion among kings, on a chariot of longing yoked with the horses of resolve: her body was held in Laṅkā, but her resolves, like horses, carried her mind swiftly to him — a subtle picture of a heart in separation. Wasting away, weeping alone, lost in brooding and grief, seeing no end to her sorrow, the lovely lady was wholly given to Rāma — the poet's play on her being "lovely" and "Rāma's" makes her single devotion charming to the ear. She writhed like the wife of a serpent king caught by a charm, and burned like Rohiṇī scorched by the comet Dhūmaketu. Born into a virtuous, righteous and well-conducted family, and married into another such family, she looked like one born into a base family — so that her soiled state comes not from any fault of hers but only from her circumstances. Then comes a garland of images: she was like great fame fallen low, like faith disregarded, like understanding wasted away, like hope thwarted, like a future laid waste, like a command defied, like the quarters blazing at a time of evil portent, like worship brought to nothing. Each image shows some excellent thing dishonoured or destroyed, and so reveals at once Sītā's noble nature and her present misery. Fame, faith, understanding, hope, command and worship are all abstract things, and the comparison suggests that Sītā is not merely a woman but the very image of dharma and truth.

The images continue: she was like a full-moon night whose moon is swallowed by darkness, like a lotus pool laid waste, like an army whose champions have been slain, like radiance destroyed by darkness, like a river run dry, like an altar defiled by an impure touch, like a flame put out; like a lotus pool churned by an elephant's trunk, its leaves and lotuses torn up and its birds put to flight, all in confusion. Stricken with grief for her husband, she was like a river whose waters have been drained away, and, without her fine grooming, like a night in the dark fortnight. Delicate and lovely of limb, fit to live in a jewelled inner chamber, she was wilting like a lotus stalk just pulled up and scorched by the heat. She was like the mate of a lordly elephant, seized and tied to a post, parted from the leader of her herd, sighing long in deep distress — as Sītā, parted from Rāma, is held captive in Laṅkā among the rākṣasīs, a most moving image. And without any effort she was graced by a single long braid, as the earth in autumn is graced by a dark line of forest when the clouds have gone. The single braid is the mark of a wife whose husband is away, yet the poet makes even that an image of beauty: even in sorrow her natural loveliness is dark and glossy as an autumn woodland. All the images share one quality — something beautiful by nature, spoiled by some outward blow — so Sītā's beauty is not destroyed, only covered. River, night and lotus stalk come from the world of nature, recalling her bond with nature as one who has lived in the forest.

Worn down by fasting, grief, brooding and fear, she was emaciated and wretched, eating little, with austerity her only wealth. Stricken with sorrow, her hands folded, she seemed to be praying in her heart, as to a god, for the defeat of the Ten-necked One by the power of Rāma, chief of the Raghus — praying for his defeat, not merely for her own release. And Rāvaṇa began to tempt Maithilī — the blameless lady, weeping and looking about her, with her fine lashes and long, white, red-cornered eyes, wholly devoted to Rāma — to his own destruction. The words "to his own destruction" announce the outcome in advance: this temptation is the seed of Rāvaṇa's ruin. "Austerity her only wealth" makes clear that Sītā's misery is not weakness but austerity; fasting, meditation and prayer with folded hands are the marks of an ascetic woman, so Rāvaṇa's temptation is like an attempt to break an ascetic's austerity, which destroys the one who makes it. The sarga begins and ends with the same word for her — "blameless" — and in the next sarga Rāvaṇa's words follow.