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Then, at last, outspeaks Oedipus, and from reproach bursts into curses. "And now you weep; you wept not at these woes Until you wept your own. But I I weep not. These things are not for tears, but for Endurance. My son is like his sire a parricide! Toil, exile, beggary daily bread doled out From stranger hands these are your gifts, my son!
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