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Ah me, the toils -- the toils of the city
The wholly destroyed: ah, pity,
Of the sacrificings my father made
In the ramparts' aid --
Much slaughter of grass-fed flocks -- that afforded no cure
That the city should not, as it does now, the burthen endure!
But I, with the soul on fire,
Soon to the earth shall cast me and expire.
To things, on the former consequent,
Again hast thou given vent:
And 't is some evil-meaning fiend doth move thee,
Heavily falling from above thee,
To melodize thy sorrows -- else, in singing,
And of all this the end
I am without resource to apprehend
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