Marsyas all the while Beneath an oak’s shade by the water’s edge Had drowsed voluptuously, and heard the notes, Dreaming some shepherd youth who watched his sheep Upon a near-by hill which to the swale Sloped in luxuriance, upon a reed His idle fancies loosened from the stops. But when Athena passed him, since he heard A roar of wings, as when a flock of quail Up-fly the hunter’s step, he woke to find The forest silent and the music gone. Then straying toward the rushes, he espied The flute upon the golden sands, and took it And tried his lips upon it, where the lips Of Pallas Athena left it fragrant, moist, And with a soul, which to the artless breath Of the rude Satyr gave melodious speech. So thinking that the music was his own And that the flute was but a worthless wood Save that it made his genius manifest, And swollen with conceit Marsyas sent A word of challenge to the Delphic god, Apollo of the cithara, for trial Of skill in music, saying who should prove The victor might do with the other what Pleased him to do, and let the Muses judge. But when Athena heard Apollo laugh, Where the nine Muses gossiped of the dare Which Marsyas uttered, for the lower meadows Of flowered Olympus whispered of the thing In jest and quip, and knowing that her soul Still echoed in the flute, but would anon Fade from it as the perfume from a girdle Tinct by the touch of Aphrodite’s hand, Spoke to Apollo: “Grant a little time Wherein the Satyr may improve his skill.” To which the Muses nodded ’mid their smiles. But yet Apollo gave assent, though teased By reason of their chatter and the thought Hid in Athena’s word that any respite Granted the Satyr could prosper his success.