“Far be it from me to contend with thee, Latona; perilous it were to meet A consort of the Cloud-compeller, Jove, In combat. Go and freely make thy boast Among the gods that thou hast vanquished me.”

He spake: Latona gathered from the ground The bow and shafts which in that whirl of dust Had fallen here and there, and, bearing them, Followed her daughter, who meantime had reached Olympus and the brazen halls of Jove. And there, a daughter at her father’s knees, She sat her down, while, as she wept, her robe Of heavenly texture trembled. Graciously Jove smiled, and drew her toward him and inquired: “What dweller of the sky has dared do this, Dear child, as though some flagrant guilt were thine?”

And thus replied the mistress of the chase Crowned with the crescent: “Father, ’twas thy queen, The white-armed Juno; she who causes strife And wrath among the gods has done me wrong.”