_Asc_. 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. _Her._ 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. H. XIV _Hermes. Apollo_ _Her_. Why so sad, Apollo? _Ap_. Alas, Hermes,—my love! _Her_. Oh; that's bad. What, are you still brooding over that affair of Daphne? _Ap_. No. I grieve for my beloved; the Laconian, the son of Oebalus. _Her_. Hyacinth? he is not dead? _Ap_. Dead. _Her_. Who killed him? Who could have the heart? That lovely boy! _Ap_. It was the work of my own hand. _Her_. You must have been mad! _Ap_. Not mad; it was an accident. _Her_. Oh? and how did it happen? _Ap_. 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? _Her_. It is, Apollo. You knew that you had set your heart upon a mortal: grieve not then for his mortality. F. XV _Hermes. Apollo_ _Her_. To think that a cripple and a blacksmith like him should marry two such queens of beauty as Aphrodite and Charis! _Ap_. Luck, Hermes—that is all. But I do wonder at their putting up with his company; they see him running with sweat, bent over the forge, all sooty-faced; and yet they cuddle and kiss him, and sleep with him! _Her_. 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. _Ap_. Well, my loves never prosper; Daphne and Hyacinth were my great passions; she so detested me that being turned to a 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.