Dialogues of the Gods (15.2-16.1)

Have you nothing to say of how I healed your burns, when you came up half-scorched the other day? Between the tunic and the fire after it, your body was in a fine mess. Besides, if nothing else, I was never a slave like you, carding wool in Lydia, wearing purple, and being beaten with Omphale’s [*] golden sandal. What’s more, I never killed my wife [*] and children in a fit of spleen.

If you don’t stop insulting me, you’ll pretty soon find out that your immortality won’t help you much. I’ll pick you up and throw you head first out of heaven, so that you’ll crack your skull, and not even Apollo the Healer will be able to do anything for you.

Stop it, I say; don’t disturb our dinner-party, or I’ll send you both from the table. But it’s only

Why so down in the mouth, Apollo?

It’s my bad luck in love, Hermes.

Ah, yes, that could well make a chap sad. But what’s your bad luck? Still sore about Daphne?

Oh, no; I’m in mourning for my Laconian darling, Oebalus’ son.

Is Hyacinthus dead then?

He certainly is.

Who did it, Apollo? Who was so insensible to charm as to kill that lovely boy?

I did it with my own hand.

What! Were you mad, Apollo?

No, it was an unlucky accident.

How? I’d like to hear how it happened.