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O grief! I shall begin my lament for my perished lord with the strain reserved for the dead.

[1200] O grief! In succession to you I, unhappy man, old and luckless, take up the lament.

A god's was this doom, a god made this disaster.

[1205] You have left the house bereaved, dear child [oh, alas, unhappy me] and robbed an old man of his children.

Death, death before your children die—this would have been right.

Shall I not rend my hair, [1210] not strike upon my head a hand's blow to end all? O my city, of two sons has Phoebus bereft me.

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