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Who was it, my son, who of the race whose years are many, that bore you in wedlock with  Pan, the mountain-roaming father? Or was it a bride of Loxias that bore you? For dear to him are all the upland pastures.  Or perhaps it was Cyllene's lord, or the Bacchants' god, dweller on the hill-tops, that received you, a new-born joy, from one of the nymphs of Helicon, with whom he most often sports.
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