450
The fierce blood-nourished Mars had pined away,
But that Eeriboea, loveliest nymph,
His step-mother, in happy hour disclosed
To Mercury the story of his wrongs;
He stole the prisoner forth, but with his woes 455
Already worn, languid and fetter-gall’d. 
Nor Juno less endured, when erst the bold
Son of Amphytrion with tridental shaft
Her bosom pierced; she then the misery felt
Of irremediable pain severe. 460
Nor suffer’d Pluto less, of all the Gods
Gigantic most, by the same son of Jove
Alcides, at the portals of the dead
Transfix’d and fill’d with anguish; he the house
Of Jove and the Olympian summit sought 465
Dejected, torture-stung, for sore the shaft
Oppress’d him, into his huge shoulder driven. 
But Paeon[12] him not liable to death
With unction smooth of salutiferous balms
Heal’d soon.  Presumptuous, sacrilegious man! 470
Careless what dire enormities he wrought,
Who bent his bow against the powers of heaven! 
But blue-eyed Pallas instigated him
By whom thou bleed’st.  Infatuate! he forgets
That whoso turns against the Gods his arm 475
Lives never long; he never, safe escaped
From furious fight, the lisp’d caresses hears
Of his own infants prattling at his knees. 
Let therefore Diomede beware, lest strong
And valiant as he is, he chance to meet 490
Some mightier foe than thou, and lest his wife,
Daughter of King Adrastus, the discrete
AEgialea, from portentous dreams
Upstarting, call her family to wail
Her first-espoused, Achaia’s proudest boast, 485
Diomede, whom she must behold no more. 

    She said, and from her wrist with both hands wiped

The trickling ichor; the effectual touch
Divine chased all her pains, and she was heal’d. 
Them Juno mark’d and Pallas, and with speech 490
Sarcastic pointed at Saturnian Jove
To vex him, blue-eyed Pallas thus began. 

    Eternal father! may I speak my thought,

And not incense thee, Jove?  I can but judge
That Venus, while she coax’d some Grecian fair 495
To accompany the Trojans whom she loves
With such extravagance, hath heedless stroked
Her golden clasps, and scratch’d her lily hand. 

    So she; then smiled the sire of Gods and men,

And calling golden Venus, her bespake. 500

    War and the tented field, my beauteous child,

Are not for thee.  Thou rather shouldst be found
In scenes of matrimonial bliss.  The toils
Of war to Pallas and to Mars belong. 

    Thus they in heaven.  But Diomede the while 505

Sprang on AEneas, conscious of the God
Whose hand o’ershadow’d him, yet even him