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Ah, fate of the clear-voiced nightingale! The gods clothed her in a winged form and gave to her a sweet life without tears1. But for me waits destruction by the two-edged sword. Chorus
 From where come these vain pangs of prophecy that assail you? And why do you mold to melody these terrors with dismal cries blended with piercing strains? How do you know the bounds of the path of your  ill-boding prophecy?
1 The wailing （l. 1144） of the bird is unconscious （Schol.）.
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