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What affliction on earth surpasses this? What calls for keener grief or pity, than to shed with your hand a mother's blood? Oh! what a dreadful crime he committed, [835] and now is raving mad, a prey to the Furies, whirling blood with racing eyes, the son of Agamemnon! O the wretch! when [840] he saw a mother's bosom over her robe of golden weave, and yet he made her his victim, in recompense for his father's sufferings.

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