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To the gloom under earth, under earth, I would change my dwelling and die in darkness, luckless man that I am, since I am bereft of your sweet converse! You have destroyed me more utterly than you perished yourself.  What was the deadly stroke of fortune, dear wife, that came against your heart? Will someone tell what has happened, or is it for nothing that this royal house roofs over the throng of my slaves? Ah me how wretched <at your death am I>,  what a grief to my house I have seen, grief that cannot be endured or uttered. I am undone: my house is bereft, my children are orphaned, alas, alas, you have left them, dear woman, best of women on whom the brightness  of the sun looks and the starry gleam of night.