“O Father Jupiter! Does not thy wrath Rise at these violent deeds? ’Tis ever thus That we, the gods, must suffer grievously From our own rivalry in favoring man; And yet the blame of all this strife is thine, For thou hast a mad daughter, ever wrong, And ever bent on mischief. All the rest Of the immortals dwelling on this mount Obey thee and are subject to thy will. Her only thou hast never yet restrained By word or act, but dost indulge her freaks Because the pestilent creature is thy child. And now she moves the insolent Diomed To raise his hand against the immortal gods. And first he wounded Venus in the wrist, Contending hand to hand; and then he sought To encounter me in arms, as if he were The equal of a god. My own swift feet Carried me thence, else might I long have lain, In anguish, under heaps of carcasses, Or helplessly been mangled by his sword.”