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Rh

I know not how to tell thee plain!

Thou hast a gentle heart if it be ill,

And not good, news thou hidest!

'Tis their will

Thy son shall die. The whole vile thing is said

Now!

Oh, I could have borne mine enemy's bed!

And speaking in the council of the host

Odysseus hath prevailed—

O lost! lost! lost!

Forgive me! It is not easy

That the son

Of one so perilous be not fostered on

To manhood—

God; may his own counsel fall

On his own sons!