“Haste thee, swift Iris, and report my words To royal Neptune, and report them right. Bid him, withdrawing from the battle-field, Repair to the assembly of the gods, Or the great ocean. If he disobey, Contemning my command, then bid him think Maturely, whether, mighty though he be, He can withstand when I put forth my power Against him. Greater is my strength than his, And elder-born am I. Yet in his pride Of heart he dares to call himself my peer, Though all the others look on me with awe.”

Thus spake the god, and Iris, whose swift feet Are like the wind, obeyed, and downward plunged From Ida’s height to sacred Troy. As when Snow-flakes or icy hail are dropped to earth From clouds before the north wind when it sweeps The sky, so darted Iris to the ground, And stood by mighty Neptune’s side, and said:⁠—