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Beside the deep-blue water [180] and on the tangled grass, I happened to be drying purple robes in the sun's golden blaze near the young reed shoots; from my mistress, from where she cried aloud her misery, [185] I heard a sound, a mournful song not fit for the lyre, because she was then shrieking, lamenting with her wails; just as a Naiad nymph, who sends a song of woe ringing over the hills, cries out, under the rocky hollows, with screams [190] at the rape of Pan.

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