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Lift your head, unhappy one, from the ground; raise up your neck; this is Troy no more,  no longer am I queen in Ilium. Though fortune change, endure your lot; sail with the stream, and follow fortune's tack, do not steer your ship of life against the tide, since chance must guide your course.  Ah me! ah me! What else but tears is now my hapless lot, whose country, children, husband, all are lost? Ah! the high-blown pride of ancestors, humbled! how brought to nothing after all!  What woe must I suppress, or what declare? [What plaintive dirge shall I awake?] Ah, woe is me! the anguish I suffer lying here stretched upon this hard pallet!  O my head, my temples, my side! How I long to turn over, and lie now on this, now on that, to rest my back and spine, while ceaselessly my tearful wail ascends.  For even this is music to the wretched, to chant their cheerless dirge of sorrow.
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