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98

Ah me, the toils—the toils of the city

The wholly destroyed: ah, pity,

Of the sacrificings my father made

In the ramparts' aid—

Much slaughter of grass-fed flocks—that afforded no cure

That the city should not, as it does now, the burthen endure!

But I, with the soul on fire,

Soon to the earth shall cast me and expire!

To things, on the former consequent,

Again hast thou given vent:

And 't is some evil-meaning fiend doth move thee,