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Meanwhile the lither Lad had loosed his bow shaft urging shaft; loud groans from Ocean rise:
They pierce point-blank the waves that restless flow these straight, those whirling in a spiral guise: The fair Nymphs fall and breathe the secret throe, the ’bosomed burden of their burning sighs; each falls ere seen the face that makes her die, for oft the ear hath loved before the eye.