_Hermes. Apollo_
_Her_. To think that a cripple and a blacksmith like him should marry
two such queens of beauty as Aphrodite and Charis!
_Ap_. 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!
_Her_. 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.
_Ap_. Well, my loves never prosper; Daphne and Hyacinth were my great
passions; she so detested me that being turned to a 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.
_Her_. Ah, once, once, I and Aphrodite—but no; no boasting.
_Ap_. I know; that is how Hermaphroditus is accounted for. But perhaps
you can tell me how it is that Aphrodite and Charis are not jealous of
one another.
_Her_. Because one is his wife in Lemnus and the other in Heaven.
Besides, Aphrodite cares most about Ares; he is her real love; so she
does not trouble her head about the blacksmith.
_Ap_. Do you think Hephaestus sees?
_Her_. Oh, he sees, yes; but what can he do? he knows what a martial
young fellow it is; so he holds his tongue. He talks of inventing a
net, though, to take them in the act with.
_Ap_. Ah, all I know is, I would not mind being taken in that act.