_Hercules_. That might be, if, like Phaeton, I were the son of a poet, and not his own son; and if there were not this difference between us, that whereas poets formerly peopled cities by the melody of their art, I could depopulate heaven and earth by the power of my club. And as for Jove's bolt, I would kick it hence to the farthest quarter of the empyrean. Be assured that even if I wished to appropriate five or six stars for the sake of a game, or to make a sling of a comet, taking it by the tail, or even to play at ball with the sun, my father would make no objection. Besides, our intention is to do good to the world, whereas Phaeton simply wished to show off his fleetness before the Hours, who held the steps for him when he mounted his chariot. He also wanted to gain reputation as a skilful coach-man, in the eyes of Andromeda, Callisto, and the other beautiful constellations, to whom, it is said, he threw, in passing, lustre bonbons, and comfits of light; and to make a fine parade of himself before the celestial gods during his journey that day, which chanced to be a festival. In short, don't give a thought to the possibility of my father's wrath. In any case, I will bear all the blame; so throw off your cloak, and send me the ball. _Atlas_. Willingly or not, I must do as you wish; since you are strong and armed, whereas I am old and defenceless. But do take care lest it fall, in which case it will have fresh swellings, or some new fracture, like that which separated Sicily from Italy, and Africa from Spain. And if it should get chipped in any way, there might be a war about what men would call the detachment of a province or kingdom. _Hercules_. Rely on me. _Atlas_. Then here goes. See how it quivers on account of its altered shape! _Hercules_. Hit a little harder; your strokes scarcely reach me. _Atlas_. It is the fault of the ball. The south-west wind catches it, because of its lightness. _Hercules_. It is its old failing to go with the wind. _Atlas_. Suppose we were to inflate the ball, since it has no more notion of a bounce than a melon. _Hercules_. A new shortcoming! Formerly it used to leap and dance like a young goat. _Atlas_. Look out! Run quickly after that. For Jove's sake, take care lest it fall! Alas! it was an evil hour when you came here. _Hercules_. You sent me such a bad stroke that I could not possibly have caught it in time, even at the risk of breaking my neck. Alas, poor little one!... How are you? Do you feel bad anywhere? I don't hear a sigh, nor does a soul move. They are all still asleep. _Atlas_. Give it back to me, by all the horns of the Styx, and let me settle it again on my shoulders. And you, take your club, and hasten to heaven to excuse me with Jove for this accident, which is entirely owing to you.