In plain words
Daśaratha, lamenting to his counsellors: My son, whose shoulders strike fear into his foes, has twisted his fragrant hair, where flowers always sat, into rough matted locks; at the waist that should wear fine silks he wears a rope of grass, lovely to the eye; he wears no ornaments, and his limbs have lost their added beauty. That he himself should go to the forest to which it is fit that I should go now: is this right, you who keep the pure Vedas? O Sumantra! O Vasiṣṭha! Tell me yourselves.