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Lycean Lord, would that the shafts from your bent bow's string of woven gold might  go forth in their might, our champions in the face of the foe, and the flashing fires of Artemis too, with which she darts through the Lycian hills. I call him whose locks are bound with gold,  who is named with the name of this land, ruddy Bacchus to whom Bacchants cry, to draw near with the blaze of his shining torch,  our ally against the god unhonored among the gods.
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