She spake, and wiped the ichor from the hand Of Venus; at her touch the hand was healed And the pain left it. Meantime Pallas stood, With Juno, looking on, both teasing Jove With words of sarcasm. Blue-eyed Pallas thus Addressed the god: “O Father Jupiter, Wilt thou be angry at the word I speak?⁠— As Venus, wheedling some Achaian dame To join the host she loves, the sons of Troy, Caressed the fair, arrayed in gay attire, A golden buckle scratched her tender hand.”

As thus she spake, the Father of the gods And mortals, calling golden Venus near, Said, with a smile: “Nay, daughter, not for thee Are tasks of war; be gentle marriage-rites Thy care; the labors of the battle-field Pertain to Pallas and the fiery Mars.”