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Chorus
The toil of bearing your children has come to naught, it was to no purpose that you bore your dear offspring, you who left behind the inhospitable strait where the dark-blue Symplegades clash. [1265] O unhappy woman, why does wrath fall so heavy upon your mind and one rash murder succeed another? Grievous for mortals is the stain of kindred blood. For the murderers are dogged by woes harmonious with their deeds, [1270] sent by the gods upon their houses.


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