Man’s food, nor slake as he with sable wine
Their thirst, thence bloodless and from death exempt. 395
She, shrieking, from her arms cast down her son,
And Phoebus, in impenetrable clouds
Him hiding, lest the spear of some brave Greek
Should pierce his bosom, caught him swift away. 
Then shouted brave Tydides after her—­ 400

    Depart, Jove’s daughter! fly the bloody field. 

Is’t not enough that thou beguilest the hearts
Of feeble women?  If thou dare intrude
Again into the war, war’s very name
Shall make thee shudder, wheresoever heard. 405

    He said, and Venus with excess of pain

Bewilder’d went; but Iris tempest-wing’d
Forth led her through the multitude, oppress’d
With anguish, her white wrist to livid changed. 
They came where Mars far on the left retired 410
Of battle sat, his horses and his spear
In darkness veil’d.  Before her brother’s knees
She fell, and with entreaties urgent sought
The succor of his coursers golden-rein’d. 

    Save me, my brother!  Pity me!  Thy steeds 415

Give me, that they may bear me to the heights
Olympian, seat of the immortal Gods! 
Oh!  I am wounded deep; a mortal man
Hath done it, Diomede; nor would he fear
This day in fight the Sire himself of all. 420

    Then Mars his coursers gold-caparison’d

Resign’d to Venus; she, with countenance sad,
The chariot climb’d, and Iris at her side
The bright reins seizing lash’d the ready steeds. 
Soon as the Olympian heights, seat of the Gods, 425
They reach’d, wing-footed Iris loosing quick
The coursers, gave them large whereon to browse
Ambrosial food; but Venus on the knees
Sank of Dione, who with folded arms
Maternal, to her bosom straining close 430
Her daughter, stroked her cheek, and thus inquired. 

    My darling child! who? which of all the Gods

Hath rashly done such violence to thee
As if convicted of some open wrong? 

    Her then the Goddess of love-kindling smiles 435

Venus thus answer’d; Diomede the proud,
Audacious Diomede; he gave the wound,
For that I stole AEneas from the fight
My son of all mankind my most beloved;
Nor is it now the war of Greece with Troy, 440
But of the Grecians with the Gods themselves. 

    Then thus Dione, Goddess all divine. 

My child! how hard soe’er thy sufferings seem
Endure them patiently.  Full many a wrong
From human hands profane the Gods endure, 445
And many a painful stroke, mankind from ours. 
Mars once endured much wrong, when on a time
Him Otus bound and Ephialtes fast,
Sons of Aloeeus, and full thirteen moons
In brazen thraldom held him.  There, at length,