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Ah, the marriage, the marriage of Paris, that destroyed his friends! Ah me, Scamander, my native stream! Upon your banks in bygone days, unhappy maid, was I nurtured with fostering care;  but now by Cocytus and the banks of Acheron, I think, I soon must chant my prophecies. Chorus
What words are these you utter, words all too plain? A new-born child hearing them could understand. I am smitten with a deadly pain, while,  by reason of your cruel fortune, you cry aloud your pitiful moans that break my heart to hear.
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