He spake; the son of Tydeus, shrinking back, Gave way before the anger of the god Who sends his shafts afar. Then Phoebus bore Aeneas from the tumult to the height Of sacred Pergamus, where stands his fane; And there Latona and the archer-queen, Diana, in the temple’s deep recess, Tended him and brought back his glorious strength. Meantime the bowyer-god, Apollo, formed An image of Aeneas, armed like him, Round which the Trojans and Achaians thronged With many a heavy weapon-stroke that fell Upon the huge orbs of their ox-hide shields And lighter bucklers. Now to fiery Mars Apollo spake: “Mars, Mars, thou plague of men, Thou steeped in blood, destroyer of walled towns! Wilt thou not force this man to leave the field? Wilt thou not meet in arms this daring son Of Tydeus, who would even fight with Jove? Already has he wounded, in close fight, The goddess Venus at the wrist, and since Assaulted me as if he were a god.”