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 Come, appear, brandish that shield of gold full in Achilles' face; raise it aslant along the chariot's branching rail, urging on your horses, and shaking your lance with double point.  For none after facing you will ever join the dance on the plains of Argive Hera; no, but he shall die, slain by Thracians, and this land shall bear the burden of his corpse and be glad.
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