“O Father Jove, henceforth will any one Of mortal men consult the immortal gods? Seest thou not how the long-haired Greeks have reared A wall before their navy, and have drawn A trench around it, yet have brought the gods No liberal hecatombs? Now will the fame Of this their work go forth wherever shines The light of day, and men will quite forget The wall which once we built with toiling hands⁠— Phoebus Apollo and myself⁠—around The city of renowned Laomedon.”

And cloud-compelling Jove in wrath replied:⁠— “Earth-shaking power! What words are these? Some god Of meaner rank and feebler arm than thou Might haply dread the work the Greeks have planned. But as for thee, thy glory shall be known Wherever shines the day; and when at last The crested Greeks, departing in their ships, Shall seek their native coasts, do thou o’erthrow The wall they built, and sink it in the deep, And cover the great shore again with sand. Thus shall their bulwark vanish from the plain.”