Circe.
Were we really happy among these trees? I can scarcely credit it, they seem so common and so frail.
Nike.
Ha, my palm and my laurel and my wings. How can I have breathed without them for an hour?
Aphrodite [to Eros].
Shall we recollect this little episode when we walk up the golden street presently to our houses?
Eros.
I cannot think so, mother. That refinement of memory of which Phœbus was speaking will seem the most ridiculous of illusions there.
Phœbus.