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Futile, I fear, are your prayers, boy. Look, once again the dark blood is oozing drop by drop from deep in the wound, and I look for worse to come.  Ah, me, oh, oh! Cursed foot, what torment you cause me! It creeps on me, it is coming near! Ah, misery! Now you know my condition. Do not flee, no!  Oh, alas! Odysseus of Cephallene, once my friend, would that this anguish might stick to you, and pierce your chest! Ah, me! Ah, me! O you twin marshalls, Agamemnon, and you, Menelaus, may your flesh instead of mine  nourish this plague, and for as long! Oh, Ah, me! O Death, Death, though I am always summoning you day after day, why do you never come? O son, noble youth, seize me,  burn me up, true friend, in that fire famed as Lemnian. I, too, once deemed it lawful to do that very service for the son of Zeus, in return for which I received these same arms, which are now in your keeping. What do you say, boy, what do you say?  Why this silence? Where are your thoughts, son?
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