whither, my queen, has fled your old affiance in me? had you then been as anxious, even in those old days it had been allowed to give arms to the Trojans; nor was the almighty sire nor the destinies unwilling that Troy should stand and Priam remain in life for ten years more. And 35 now, if war is your object and so your purpose holds, all the care that it lies within my art to promise, what can be wrought out of iron and molten electrum, as far as fire can burn and wind blow—cease to show by entreaty that you mistrust your power.” This said, he gave the embrace she longed for, and falling on the bosom of his spouse wooed the calm of slumber in every limb. Then, soon as rest, first indulged, had driven sleep 5 away, when flying night had run half her course; just when a woman, compelled to support life by spinning, even by Pallas’ slender craft, wakes to light the fire that slumbered in the embers, adding night to her day’s work, and keeps her handmaids labouring long by the blaze, all 10 that she may preserve her husband’s bed unsullied, and bring up his infant sons; even so the lord of fire, at an hour not less slothful, rises from his couch of down to the toils of the artisan. There rises an island hard by the Sicanian coast and Æolian Lipari, towering with fiery 15 mountains; beneath it thunders a cavern, the den of Ætna, blasted out by Cyclop forges; the sound of mighty blows echoes on anvils: the smeltings of the Chalybes hiss through its depths, and the fire pants from the jaws of the furnace; it is the abode of Vulcan, and the land 20 bears Vulcan’s name. Hither, then, the lord of fire descends from heaven’s height. There, in the enormous den, the Cyclops were forging the iron, Brontes, and Steropes, and Pyracmon, the naked giant. In their hands was the rough cast of the thunder-bolt, one of those many 25 which the great Father showers down on earth from all quarters of heaven—part was polished for use, part still incomplete. Three spokes of frozen rain, three of watery cloud had they put together, three of ruddy flame and winged southern wind; and now they were blending with 30 what they had done the fearful flash, and the noise, and the terror, and the fury of untiring fire. In another part they were hurrying on for Mars the car and the flying wheels, with which he rouses warriors to madness, aye, and whole cities; and with emulous zeal were making 35 bright with golden serpent scales the terrible Ægis, the armour of angry Pallas, snakes wreathed together, and full on the breast of the goddess the Gorgon herself, her neck severed and her eyes rolling. “Away with all this,” cries the god; “take your unfinished tasks elsewhere, you Cyclops of Ætna, and give your attention here. Arms are wanted for a fiery warrior.