_Eros. Zeus_
_Eros_. You might let me off, Zeus! I suppose it _was_ rather too bad
of me; but there!—I am but a child; a wayward child.
_Zeus_. A child, and born before Iapetus was ever thought of? You bad
old man! Just because you have no beard, and no white hairs, are you
going to pass yourself off for a child?
_Eros_. Well, and what such mighty harm has the old man ever done you,
that you should talk of chains?
_Zeus_. Ask your own guilty conscience, what harm. The pranks you have
played me! Satyr, bull, swan, eagle, shower of gold,—I have been
everything in my time; and I have you to thank for it. You never by any
chance make the women in love with _me_; no one is ever smitten with
_my_ charms, that I have noticed. No, there must be magic in it always;
I must be kept well out of sight. They like the bull or the swan well
enough: but once let them set eyes on _me_, and they are frightened out
of their lives.
_Eros_. Well, of course. They are but mortals; the sight of Zeus is too
much for them.
_Zeus_. Then why are Branchus and Hyacinth so fond of Apollo?
_Eros_. Daphne ran away from him, anyhow; in spite of his beautiful
hair and his smooth chin. Now, shall I tell you the way to win hearts?
Keep that aegis of yours quiet, and leave the thunderbolt at home; make
yourself as smart as you can; curl your hair and tie it up with a bit
of ribbon, get a purple cloak, and gold-bespangled shoes, and march
forth to the music of flute and drum;—and see if you don't get a finer
following than Dionysus, for all his Maenads.
_Zeus_. Pooh! I'll win no hearts on such terms.
_Eros_. Oh, in that case, don't fall in love. Nothing could be simpler.
_Zeus_. I dare say; but I like being in love, only I don't like all
this fuss. Now mind; if I let you off, it is on this understanding.