The Rāmāyaṇa of Vālmīki 4.6.9

4.6.9

ātmanā pañcamaṃ māṃ hi dṛṣṭvā śailataṭe sthitam
uttarīyaṃ tayā tyaktaṃ śubhāny ābharaṇāni ca

For I thy darling will restore,
Lost like the prize of holy lore.
Yea, though in heaven the lady dwell,
Or prisoned in the depths of hell,
My friendly care her way shall track
And bring thy ransomed darling back.
Let this my promise soothe thy care,
Nor doubt the words I truly swear.
Saints, fiends, and dwellers of the skies
Shall find thy wife a bitter prize,
Like the rash child who rues too late
Thy treacherous lure of poisoned cate.
No longer, Prince, thy loss deplore:
Thy darling wife will I restore.
'Twas she I saw: my heart infers
That shrinking form was doubtless hers.
Which gaint Rávan', fierce and dread,
Bore swiftly through the clouds o'erhead
Still writhing in his strict embrace
Like helpless queen oft serpent race,
And from her lips that sad voice came
Shrieking thine own and Lakshman's name.
High on a hill she saw me stand
With comrades twain on either hand.
Her outer robe to earth she threw,
And with it sent her anklets too.
We saw the glittering tokens fall,
We found them there and kept them all.
These will I bring: perchance thine eyes
The treasured spoils will recognize.'
He ceased: then Raghu's son replied
To the glad tale, and eager cried:
'Bring them with all thy speed: delay
No more, dear friend, but haste away.'
Thus Ráma spoke. Sugríva hied
Within the mountain's caverned side.
Impelled by love that stirred each thought
The precious tokens quickly brought,