Dialogi deorum

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.

Hermes To think that a cripple and a blacksmith like him should marry two such queens of beauty as Aphrodite and Charis!

Apollo Luck, Hermes—that is all. But I do wonder at their putting up with his company; they see him running with

Hermes Yes, it makes me angry too; how I envy him! Ah, Apollo, you may let your locks grow, and play your harp, and be proud of your looks; I am a healthy fellow, and can touch the lyre; but, when it comes to bedtime, we lie alone.

Apollo Well, my loves never prosper; Daphne and Hyacinth were my great passions; she so detested me that being turned toa tree was more attractive than I; and him I killed with a quoit. Nothing is left me of them but wreaths of their leaves and flowers,

Hermes Ah, once, once, I and Aphrodite—but no; no boasting.