Wind I still to the west, conducting tardy Boötes,
Who unwilling and slow must into Ocean merge.
Yet though press me o'night the pacing footprints of Godheads,
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Tethys, hoary of hair, ever regains me by day.
(Lend me thy leave to speak such words, Rhamnusian Virgin,
Verities like unto these never in fear will I veil;
Albeit every star asperse me with enemy's censure,
Secrets in soothfast heart hoarded perforce I reveal.)
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