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cloud-compeller, overcome, Assents to fate, and ratifies the doom. Then
touch'd with grief, the weeping heavens distill'd A shower of blood o'er

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all the fatal field: The god, his eyes averting from the plain, Laments
his son, predestined to be slain, Far from the Lycian shores, his happy
native reign. Now met in arms, the combatants appear Each heaved the
shield, and poised the lifted spear From strong Patroclus' hand the




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