She took Fable upon her lap, proffered her breast, and while smiling upon the little one who was enjoying her feast, continued, "I am myself the cause that Eros has become so wild and inconstant. But yet I repent it not, for those hours have made me immortal. I believe that his fiery caresses have strangely transformed him. Long, silver-white wings covered his glittering shoulders, and the charming fulness of his form. The strength, which swelling forth had so suddenly changed him from a youth to a man, seemed entirely to have withdrawn into his wings, and he had become again a boy. The silent glow of his face became like the dazzling fire of a will-o'-the-wisp, his holy seriousness had changed to dissembled roguishness, the significant calm to childish irresolution, the noble carriage to a droll agility. I felt irresistibly attracted to the wanton boy by an ardent passion, and suffered with pain his sneering scorn, and his indifference to my most touching prayers. I perceived that my form was changed. My careless serenity had fled, and its place filled with sorrowful anxiety and shrinking timidity. I would have hidden myself with Eros from all eyes. I had not the heart to meet his offending eye, and was overwhelmed with shame and humility. I had no thoughts but for him; and would have given my life to free him from his wantonness. Deeply as he had hurt my feelings, I was compelled to worship him. "Since the time when he discovered himself and escaped me, I have continually been in pursuit of him, though I have conjured him touchingly and with hot tears to remain with me. He seems really intent on persecuting me. As often as I reach him, he flies away again. On every side his bow deals destruction. I have nought to do but to console the unhappy, and yet I myself need consolation. The voices of those who call me point out to me his path, and their mournful complaints, when I am compelled to leave them, deeply cut my heart. The scribe pursues us in a terrible rage, and revenges himself upon the poor wounded ones. The fruit of that mysterious night was a multitude of strange children, who look like their grandfather, and are named after him. Being winged like their father, they ever accompany him, to torment the poor ones whom his arrow wounds. But there comes the joyous procession. I must away. Farewell, sweet child. His presence excites my passion. Be happy in thy designs."