“Rejoice, Patroclus, even in the land Of souls. Lo! I perform the vow I made; Twelve gallant sons of the brave men of Troy The fire consumes with thee. For Hector’s corse, The flames shall not devour it, but the dogs.”

Such was his threat; but Hector was not made The prey of dogs, for Venus, born to Jove, Drave off by night and day the ravenous tribe, And with a rosy and ambrosial oil Anointed him, that he might not be torn When dragged along the earth. Above the spot And all around it, where the body lay, Phoebus Apollo drew a veil of clouds Reaching from heaven, that on his limbs the flesh And sinews might not stiffen in the sun.