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They are, I say—a haunting curse for thee.

Who first begun the wrong the gods do know.

Thy loathly mind they verily do know.

Thou'rt hateful: and I'm sick of thy cross talk.

And I of thine: but the farewell is easy.

Well, how? What shall I do? I too long for it.

Let me then bury and bemoan these dead.

Never. Since I will bury them with this hand,

Bearing them to the sacred grove of Hera,

God of the heights, that no one of my foes

Shall do despite to them, breaking their graves.

And I'll appoint this land of Sisyphus

A solemn high day and a sacrifice