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Gone are your sacrifices! gone the dancer's cheerful shout! gone the vigils of the gods as night closed in! your images of carven gold are now no more;  and Phrygia's holy festivals, twelve times a year, at each full moon, are ended now. It is this, it is this that fills me with anxious thought whether you, lord, seated on the sky, your heavenly throne, care at all that my city is destroyed,  a prey to the furious fiery blast.
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