She said: and Pallas, blue-ey’d Maid, complied. Offspring of Saturn, Juno, heav’nly Queen, Herself th’ immortal steeds caparison’d, Adorn’d with golden frontlets: to the car Hebe the circling wheels of brass attach’d, Eight-spok’d, that on an iron axle turn’d; The felloes were of gold, and fitted round With brazen tires, a marvel to behold; The naves were silver, rounded every way: The chariot-board on gold and silver bands Was hung, and round it ran a double rail: The pole was all of silver; at the end A golden yoke, with golden yoke-bands fair: And Juno, all on fire to join the fray, Beneath the yoke the flying coursers led. Pallas, the child of aegis-bearing Jove, Within her father’s threshold dropp’d her veil, Of airy texture, work of her own hands; The cuirass donn’d of cloud-compelling Jove, And stood accoutred for the bloody fray. Her tassell’d aegis round her shoulders next She threw, with Terror circled all around; And on its face were figur’d deeds of arms, And Strife, and Courage high, and panic Rout; There too a Gorgon’s head, of monstrous size, Frown’d terrible, portent of angry Jove: And on her head a golden helm she plac’d, Four-crested, double-peak’d, whose ample verge A hundred cities’ champions might suffice: Her fiery car she mounted: in her hand A spear she bore, long, weighty, tough; wherewith The mighty daughter of a mighty sire Sweeps down the ranks of those her hate pursues. Then Juno sharply touch’d the flying steeds: Forthwith spontaneous opening, grated harsh The heavenly portals, guarded by the Hours, Who Heav’n and high Olympus have in charge To roll aside, or draw the veil of cloud. Through these th’ excited horses held their way. They found the son of Saturn, from the Gods Sitting apart, upon the highest crest Of many-ridg’d Olympus; there arriv’d, The white-arm’d Goddess Juno stay’d her steeds, And thus address’d the Sov’reign Lord of Heav’n: “O Father Jove! canst thou behold unmov’d The violence of Mars? how many Greeks, Reckless and uncontroll’d, he hath destroy’d; To me a source of bitter grief; meanwhile Venus and Phoebus of the silver bow Look on, well pleas’d, who sent this madman forth, To whom both law and justice are unknown. Say, Father Jove, shall I thine anger move, If with disgrace I drive him from the field?” To whom the Cloud-compeller thus replied: “Go, send against him Pallas; she, I know, Hath oft inflicted on him grievous pain.”.