Dialogi deorum

Asclepius That comes well from you, whose burns I healed, when you came up all singed not so long ago; between the tunic and the flames, your body was half consumed. Anyhow, it would be enough to mention that I was never a slave like you, never combed wool in Lydia, masquerading in a purple shawl and being slippered by an Omphale, never killed my wife and children in a fit of the spleen.

Heracles If you don’t stop being rude, I shall soon show you that immortality is not much good. I will take you up and pitch you head over heels out of Heaven, and Apollo himself shall never mend your broken crown.

Zeus Cease, I say, and let us hear ourselves speak, or I will send you both away from table. Heracles, Asclepius died before you, and has the right to a better place.

Hermes Why so sad, Apollo?

Apollo Alas, Hermes,—my love!

Hermes Oh; that’s bad. What, are you still brooding over that affair of Daphne?

Apollo No. I grieve for my beloved; the Laconian, the son of Oebalus.

Hermes Hyacinth? he is not dead?

Apollo Dead.

Hermes Who killed him? Who could have the heart? That lovely boy!

Apollo It was the work of my own hand.

Hermes You must have been mad!

Apollo Not mad; it was an accident.

Hermes Oh? and how did it happen?

Apollo He was learning to throw the quoit, and I was throwing with him. I had just sent my quoit up into the air as usual, when jealous Zephyr (damned be he above all winds! he had long been in love with Hyacinth, though Hyacinth would have nothing to say to him)—Zephyr came blustering down from Taygetus, and dashed the quoit upon the child’s head; blood flowed from the wound in streams, and in one moment all was over. My first thought was of revenge; I lodged an arrow in Zephyr, and pursued his flight to the mountain, As for the child, I buried him at Amyclae, on the fatal spot; and from his blood I have caused a flower to spring up, sweetest, fairest of flowers, inscribed with letters of woe.—Is my grief unreasonable?

Hermes It is, Apollo. You knew that you had set your heart upon a mortal: grieve not then for his mortality.