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On my breast I beat1 an Arian2 dirge in just the same fashion as a Cissian3 wailing woman. With clenched fists, raining blows thick and fast, my outstretched hands  could be seen descending from above, from far above, now on this side, now on that, till my battered and wretched head resounded with the strokes.
1 At the time of Agamemnon's murder, when the women wailed with the extravagance of professional Asiatic mourners. Here they repeat those signs of mourning.
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