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But I am not so oppressed by the misery of the Trojans, neither that of King Priam, nor the misery of my worthy mother or my brave brothers, many of whom will die, as your misery if some Achaeans armed to the teeth behind you as a slave dragging yourself around and you have to shed bitter tears.

If you only knew how my heart tears at the thought that in distant Argos you stand as a slave at the loom or, forced by pressing distress, you have to drag water from the well.

How I tormented the idea that at the sight of your tears someone will say

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Even so, it is not so much the anguish of the Trojans that distresses me, nor king Priam and my respected mother, nor my any courageous brothers who may roll dead in the dirt; no, none of these burns my soul so much as the thought of your disgrace when some helmeted Achaean drags you behind him as his slave, while you weep bitter tears.

If only you could know the hurt it gives me to think of the pain that will weigh upon your heart when you bend enslaved over some loom in distant Argos, or stagger under the pitcher’s weight bringing water from the well.

If only you knew how much it tortures me to think that men may look into your tear-filled eyes and say:

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