I will not tire on the road, Sita says, for I will be looking at your lotus feet at every step. I will wash your feet in the shade of a tree and fan away the weariness of the path. When I see your dark body beaded with sweat, where will there be room for sorrow? I will spread leaves on level ground and, your servant, press your feet all night. Who could look at me with ill intent while I am with my lord, any more than a hare or jackal could eye a lioness? Am I tender and you fit for the forest? If my heart does not break at such hard words, my wretched life will bear the pain of parting.