The goddess spoke, and turn’d her eyes away, That, beaming round, diffused celestial day. Jove’s Cyprian daughter, stooping on the land, Lent to the wounded god her tender hand: Slowly he rises, scarcely breathes with pain, And, propp’d on her fair arm, forsakes the plain. This the bright empress of the heavens survey’d, And, scoffing, thus to war’s victorious maid: