“A god indeed, my mother, must have given These arms, the work of heavenly hands: no man Could forge them. Now I arm myself for war. But for the valiant Menoetiades I greatly fear that flies will gather round The wounds inflicted by the spear, and worms Be bred within them, to pollute the corpse Now that the life is gone, and taint the whole.”

And silver-footed Thetis answered thus: “Son, have no care for that. The task be mine To drive away the importunate swarm that feed On heroes slain in battle. Though it lie The whole year long, the body shall remain Even more than uncorrupted. Call thou now To council all the Achaian chiefs; renounce Thy feud with Agamemnon, king of men, And arm for war, and put on all thy might.”

She spake, and called a fiery courage up Within the hero’s breast. The goddess then Infused ambrosia and the ruddy juice Of nectar through the nostrils of the dead Into the frame, to keep it from decay.