But tell me, is Endymion handsome? That is always a comfort in our humiliation.

Most handsome, I think, my dear; you should see him when he has spread out his cloak on the rock and is asleep; his javelins in his left hand, just slipping from his grasp, the right arm bent upwards, making a bright frame to the face, and he breathing softly in helpless slumber. Then I come noiselessly down, treading on tiptoe not to wake and startle him— but there, you know all about it; why tell you the rest? I am dying of love, that is all.