To think that a cripple and a blacksmith like him should marry two such queens of beauty as Aphrodite and Charis!

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!

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.

Well, my loves never prosper; Daphne and Hyacinth were my great passions; she so detested me that being turned toa 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,

Ah, once, once, I and Aphrodite—but no; no boasting.