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Xer. Yea, with it mingle dark....
Chor. And bitter, grievous blows.
Strophe VII
Xer. Yea, beat thy breast, and cry
After the Mysian type.
Chor. Oh, misery! oh, misery!
Xer. Yea, tear the white hair off thy flowing beard.
Chor. Yea; with clenched hands, with clenchèd hands, I say,
In very piteous guise.