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Eteoc. Nay, if ye hear of wounded men or dying,
Bear them not swiftly off with wailing loud;
[*]For blood of men is Ares' chosen food.[[90]]
Chor. Hark! now I hear the panting of the steeds.
Eteoc. Clear though thou hear, yet hear not overmuch.
Chor. Lo! from its depths the fortress groans, beleaguered.
Eteoc. It is enough that I provide for this.
Chor. I fear: the din increases at the gates.
Eteoc. Be still, say nought of these things in the city.