The Cloud-compeller, Jove, replied, and frowned: “Come not to me, thou changeling, to complain. Of all the gods upon the Olympian mount I like thee least, who ever dost delight In broils and wars and battles. Thou art like Thy mother Juno, headstrong and perverse. Her I can scarcely rule by strict commands, And what thou sufferest now, I deem, is due To her bad counsels. Yet ’tis not my will That thou shouldst suffer longer, who dost share My lineage, whom thy mother bore to me. But wert thou born, destroyer as thou art, To any other god, thou hadst long since Lain lower than the sons of Uranus.”
So spake he, and to Paeon gave command To heal the wound; and Paeon bathed the part With pain-dispelling balsams, and it healed; For Mars was not to die. As, when the juice Of figs is mingled with white milk and stirred, The liquid gathers into clots while yet It whirls with the swift motion, so was healed The wound of violent Mars. Then Hebe bathed The god, and robed him richly, and he took His seat, delighted, by Saturnian Jove.
Now, having forced the curse of nations, Mars To pause from slaughter, Argive Juno came, With Pallas, her invincible ally, Back to the mansion of imperial Jove.