His golden-riband-bound-man’d horse to lend her up to heav’n For she was much griev’d with a wound a mortal man had giv’n, Tydides, that ’gainst Jove himself durst now advance his arm. He granted, and his chariot (perplex’d with her late harm) She mounted, and her waggoness was She that paints the air. The horse she rein’d, and with a scourge importun’d their repair, That of themselves out-flew the wind, and quickly they ascend Olympus, high seat of the Gods. Th’ horse knew their journey’s end, Stood still, and from their chariot the windy-footed dame Dissolv’d, and gave them heav’nly food; and to Dione came Her wounded daughter, bent her knees. She kindly bade her stand, With sweet embraces help’d her up, strok’d her with her soft hand, Call’d kindly by her name, and ask’d: “What God hath been so rude, Sweet daughter, to chastise thee thus, as if thou wert pursu’d Ev’n to the act of some light sin, and deprehended so? For otherwise, each close escape is in the great let go.” She answer’d: “Haughty Tydeus’ son hath been so insolent, Since, him whom most my heart esteems of all my lov’d descent, I rescu’d from his bloody hand. Now battle is not giv’n To any Trojans by the Greeks, but by the Greeks to heav’n.” She answer’d: “Daughter, think not much, though much it grieve thee; use The patience, whereof many Gods examples may produce, In many bitter ills receiv’d, as well that men sustain By their inflictions as by men repaid to them again. Mars suffer’d much more than thyself by Ephialtes’ pow’r, And Otus’, Aloëus’ sons; who in a brazen tow’r, And in inextricable chains, cast that war-greedy God, Where twice-six months and one he liv’d, and there the period Of his sad life perhaps had clos’d, if his kind step-dame’s eye, Fair Erebæa, had not seen; who told it Mercury, And he by stealth enfranchis’d him; though he could scarce enjoy The benefit of franchisement, the chains did so destroy His vital forces with their weight. So Juno suffer’d more When, with a three-fork’d arrow’s head, Amphitryo’s son did gore Her right breast, past all hope of cure. Pluto sustain’d no less By that self man, and by a shaft of equal bitterness Shot through his shoulder at hell gates; and there, amongst the dead, Were he not deathless, he had died; but up to heav’n he fled, Extremely tortur’d, for recure, which instantly he won At Pæon’s hand, with sov’reign balm; and this did Jove’s great son, Unblest, great-high-deed-daring man, that car’d not doing ill, That with his bow durst wound the Gods! But, by Minerva’s will, Thy wound the foolish Diomed was so profane to give; Not knowing he that fights with Heav’n hath never long to live, And for this deed, he never shall have child about his knee To call him father, coming home. Besides, hear this from me, Strength-trusting man, though thou be strong, and art in strength a tow’r, Take heed a stronger meet thee not, and that a woman’s pow’r Contains not that superior strength, and lest that woman be