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 O you pure sunlight, and you air, light's equal partner over earth, how often have you heard the chords of my laments  and the thudding blows against this bloodied breast at the time of gloomy night's leaving off! My accursed bed in that house of suffering there knows well already how I observe my night-long rites—how often I bewail my miserable  father, whom bloody Ares did not welcome with deadly gifts in a foreign land, but my mother and her bedfellow Aegisthus split his head with murderous axe, just as woodmen chop an oak.  And for this crime no pitying cry bursts from any lips but mine, when you, Father, have died a death so cruel and so deserving of pity!
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