Rāvaṇa, the lord of Lanka, gazed upon Sītā and spoke with fervor, “O lovely one, in all the three worlds, I see no one who could, by force, take you away while you are guarded by my arms. Rule this vast kingdom of Lanka; let those like me, and even the gods, moving and unmoving, be your servants. Having been anointed with consecration water, be pleased and enjoy yourself; whatever wrong was done before by dwelling in the forest is now past. And whatever good deeds you have done, receive their reward here; here are all the garlands with divine fragrance, O Maithili. And here are the finest ornaments; enjoy them with me. The Pushpaka, O beautiful-hipped one, is my brother Vaishravana’s—a chariot shining like the sun, seized by force in battle, vast and delightful, that aerial car moves as swiftly as thought. There, Sītā, enjoy yourself with me as you please; your face, like a lotus, pure and lovely to behold—But, O beautiful one, your face does not shine, afflicted as you are by sorrow.” As he spoke thus, Sītā, the noble lady, with the edge of her garment, held back her tears with effort. Her face, like the moon, appeared unwell, her radiance dimmed by worry. Then Rāvaṇa, the night-stalker, spoke sharply, “Enough of this shame, Vaidehī, brought on by your breach of duty. O lady, this lack of movement that will overpower you is a sage’s curse. My feet, gentle towards you, are pressed down by my head. Grant me your favor quickly; I am your obedient servant. These words I speak are empty, dried up within me. Nor would Rāvaṇa ever bow his head to any woman.” Having spoken thus to Maithilī, daughter of Janaka, the ten-headed one, seized by fate, thought, “She is mine.” Now hear the fifty-sixth sarga. Thus addressed, Vaidehī, though tormented by grief, became fearless. Placing a blade of grass between herself and Rāvaṇa, she replied to him, “There is a king named Daśaratha, steadfast in truth, a pillar of righteousness like a mountain; his son is that Rāghava. That righteous Rāma, renowned in the three worlds, long-armed and broad-eyed, is my husband, like a god to me. Born in the Ikṣvāku line, lion-shouldered and radiant, he, together with his brother Lakṣmaṇa, will take your life. If, before his eyes, you were to violate me by force, you would lie slain in battle at Janasthāna, just as Khara did. All these Rākṣasas you boast of, fierce and mighty, are powerless before Rāghava, as serpents are before Garuḍa. His arrows, released from the bowstring and adorned with gold, will strike your body like waves striking the bank of the Gaṅgā. Even if you are invulnerable to gods or demons, Rāvaṇa, after provoking such great enmity, you will not escape alive from him. That mighty Rāghava will be the end of your remaining life; your survival is as unlikely as that of a beast led to the sacrificial post. If Rāma were to see you with eyes blazing in anger, you, demon, would be burned up today as Kāmadeva was by Rudra. He who could cast down the moon from the sky, destroy it, or dry up the ocean—only he could free Sītā here. You are as good as dead, your glory gone, your strength and senses lost; because of you, Laṅkā will be left widowed. This wicked deed of yours will not bring you happiness; you have taken me by force from my husband’s side, separating me from him. My husband, radiant and mighty, endowed with divine strength, dwells fearlessly in the desolate Dandaka forest, relying on his valor. He will strip you of your strength, power, arrogance, and pride in battle, with a rain of arrows upon your body. When destruction comes upon beings, driven by time, then people, subject to fate, become careless in their actions. By assaulting me, your time has arrived, O vile Rakshasa, for the destruction of yourself, the Rakshasas, and your inner palace. An altar adorned with vessels and ladles, sanctified by the mantras of the twice-born, cannot be desecrated by a Chandala, even if placed in the midst of a sacrifice. So too, as the devoted wife of a righteous man, firm in my vows, I cannot be touched by you, O wicked Rakshasa. Just as a swan, always playing among lotuses, would never notice a mud-hen hidden among the reeds, so too am I beyond your reach. This body is insensible; bind it or kill it as you wish. Neither my body nor my life is to be protected, O Rakshasa. But it is not possible for me to give up my honor on this earth.” Having spoken thus, Vaidehi uttered harsh words in anger. There, Janaki said nothing further to Rāvaṇa, having spoken words that were harsh and hair-raising. Then Rāvaṇa replied to Sītā with words meant to inspire fear: “Listen, Maithili, to my words, O beautiful one, for twelve months. If, within this time, you do not approach me, O lovely-smiling one, then my cooks will cut you into pieces for breakfast.” Having spoken these harsh words, Rāvaṇa, the enemy of enemies, then angrily addressed the Rakshasis.