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As I surmise, 'tis welcome; else his head
Had scarce been crowned with berry-laden bays.
We soon shall know; he's now in earshot range.
My royal cousin, say, Menoeceus' child,
What message hast thou brought us from the god?
Good news, for e'en intolerable ills,
Finding right issue, tend to naught but good.
How runs the oracle? thus far thy words
Give me no ground for confidence or fear.
If thou wouldst hear my message publicly,
I'll tell thee straight, or with thee pass within.
Speak before all; the burden that I bear
Is more for these my subjects than myself.
Let me report then all the god declared.
King Phoebus bids us straitly extirpate
A fell pollution that infests the land,
And no more harbor an inveterate sore.
What expiation means he? What's amiss?
Banishment, or the shedding blood for blood.