With its sharp point. It pierced the ambrosial robe, Wrought for her by the Graces, at the spot Where the palm joins the wrist, and broke the skin, And drew immortal blood⁠—the ichor⁠—such As from the blessed gods may flow; for they Eat not the wheaten loaf, nor drink dark wine; And therefore they are bloodless, and are called Immortal. At the stroke the goddess shrieked, And dropped her son. Apollo in his arms Received and in a dark cloud rescued him, Lest any of the Grecian knights should aim A weapon at his breast to take his life. Meantime the brave Tydides cried aloud:⁠—

“Leave wars and battle, goddess. Is it not Enough that thou delude weak womankind? Yet, if thou ever shouldst return, to bear A part in battle, thou shalt have good cause To start with fear, when war is only named.”