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In the genuine language of despair, he soothes himself awhile with the pity that shall be paid him after his death. Tamen cantabitis, arcades, inquit, Montibus hoec vestris: soli cantare periti Arcades. O mihi tum quam molliter ossa quiescant, Vestra meos olim si fistula dicat amores! Virg. Ec. x. 31. Yet, O Arcadian swains, Ye best artificers of soothing strains!
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