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Hark! hark! a sound; sitting on her blood-stained nest by Simois, she sings with voice of many trills [550] her piteous plaint, the nightingale that slew her child.

Already on Ida they are pasturing the flocks, and over the night I catch the shrill pipe's note.

Sleep charms my eyes, [555] for sleep is sweetest at dawn to tired eyelids.

Why does not our scout draw near, whom Hector sent to spy on the fleet?

He is so long away, I have my fears.

[560] Is it possible he has plunged into a hidden ambush and been slain?

Perhaps. I am afraid.

My counsel is we go and rouse the Lycians for the fifth watch, as the lot ordained. Exit Chorus

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