Of bound on bound it rushes down, until It cometh to the levels of the plain, And there perforce its stormy flight is stayed; So Ares, battle-eager Son of Zeus, Was stayed, how loth soe'er; for all the Gods To the Ruler of the Blessed needs must yield, Seeing he sits high-throned above them all, Clothed in his might unspeakable. Yet still Many a wild thought surged through Ares' soul, Urging him now to dread the terrible threat Of Cronos' wrathful Son, and to return Heavenward, and now to reck not of his Sire, But with Achilles' blood to stain those hands, The battle-tireless. At the last his heart Remembered how that many and many a son Of Zeus himself in many a war had died, Nor in their fall had Zeus availed them aught. Therefore he turned him from the Argives--else, Down smitten by the blasting thunderbolt, With Titans in the nether gloom he had lain, Who dared defy the eternal will of Zeus. Then did the warrior sons of Argos strip With eager haste from corpses strown all round The blood-stained spoils. But ever Peleus' son Gazed, wild with all regret, still gazed on her, The strong, the beautiful, laid in the dust; And all his heart was wrung, was broken down With sorrowing love, deep, strong as he had known When that beloved friend Patroclus died. Loud jeered Thersites, mocking to his face: "Thou sorry-souled Achilles! art not shamed To let some evil Power beguile thine heart To pity of a pitiful Amazon Whose furious spirit purposed naught but ill To us and ours? Ha, woman-mad art thou, And thy soul lusts for this thing, as she were Some lady wise in household ways, with gifts And pure intent for honoured wedlock wooed! Good had it been had her spear reached thine heart, The heart that sighs for woman-creatures still! Thou carest not, unmanly-souled, not thou, For valour's glorious path, when once thine eye Lights on a woman! Sorry wretch, where now Is all thy goodly prowess? where thy wit? And where the might that should beseem a king All-stainless? Dost not know what misery This self-same woman-madness wrought for Troy? Nothing there is to men more ruinous Than lust for woman's beauty; it maketh fools Of wise men. But the toil of war attains Renown. To him that is a hero indeed Glory of victory and the War-god's works Are sweet. 'Tis but the battle-blencher craves The beauty and the bed of such as she!"