Dialogues of the Gods (16.2-17.1)

He was learning to throw the quoit, and I was throwing it with him, when Zephyrus did it—curse that wind above them all—Zephyrus, too, had been in love with him for a long time, but the boy wouldn’t look at him, and he couldn’t stand his contempt. Well, I threw my quoit as usual, and Zephyrus blew down from Taygetus, and dashed it down on the boy’s head. Blood poured out where it hit him, and he died on the spot, poor lad. I shot back at Zephyrus with my arrows and chased him hard, all the way back to the mountain. The boy I’ve had buried in Amyclae, where he was struck down by the discus, and I’ve made the earth send up from his blood the sweetest and fairest flower of them all, one which bears lettering [*] of mourning for the dead one. Do you think it’s unreasonable of me to have a broken heart?

Yes I do, my good chap. You knew you’d chosen a mortal to love; so you mustn’t be vexed at his death.

To think, Apollo, that a poor cripple and mere artisan like him has married the two fairest of the fair, Aphrodite and Charis! [*]

That’s just good luck, my dear fellow; but what does surprise me is that they can stand living with him, especially when they see him bathed in sweat, bending over his furnace, with soot all over his face. And yet they embrace a creature like that and kiss him and sleep with him.

That annoys me too, and makes me jealous of Hephaestus. You can show off your fine hair, Apollo, and play on your harp, and be proud of your beauty, and I of my fine physique and my lyre, but when it comes to bedtime, we’ve got to sleep alone.