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Alas, alas! What piteous dirge will you devise to mourn the outrage done you? No more through Ida's looms  shall I ply the shuttle to and fro. I look my last on my children's bodies, my last; I shall endure surpassing misery, it may be as the unwilling bride of some Hellene （perish the night and fortune that brings me to this!）;  it may be as a wretched slave from Peirene's sacred fount I shall draw their store of water. Oh! may it be ours to come to Theseus' famous realm, a land of joy.  Never, never let me see Eurotas' swirling tide, hateful home of Helen, there to meet and be the slave of Menelaus, whose hand laid Troy waste!
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