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O Ares, god of much suffering! Why, why are you possessed by a love of blood and  death, out of harmony with the festivals of Bromius? Not for young girls crowned in the lovely dance do you toss your curls, singing to the flute's breath a song to charm the dancers' feet; no, with warriors clad in armor you inspire the Argive army with a lust  for Theban blood, leading your revels that are held without music. Nor do you rush with wild waving of the thyrsus, clad in fawnskin, but with chariots and horses you go to the waters of Ismenus, inspiring the Argives  with hatred for the Spartans, arraying in bronze armor against these stone-built walls a band of warriors and their shields. Truly Strife is a goddess to fear, who devised these troubles for the princes of this land,  for the much-suffering sons of Labdacus.