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Epops rushes into the thicket.

Epops
From within; singing.
Chase off drowsy sleep, dear companion. [210] Let the sacred hymn gush from thy divine throat in melodious strains; roll forth in soft cadence your refreshing melodies to bewail the fate of Itys, which has been the cause of so many tears to us both. [215] Your pure notes rise through the thick leaves of the yew-tree right up to the throne of Zeus, where Phoebus listens to you, Phoebus with his golden hair. And his ivory lyre responds to your plaintive accents; [220] he gathers the choir of the gods and from their immortal lips pours forth a sacred chant of blessed voices.

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