What! are we two, I of the beast's grain, thou
The delicate, disdainful spirit of flame,
The seed of mischief and the seed of Zeus,
Brought equal at the last? Nay, is the beast
Sun's master, Helios? Shepherds are my subjects.
I do not sway high kingdoms of the air—
I drag my hoofs in the clay. I do not fashion
Songs for the stars upon a golden lyre—
I (as did Marsyas, ha?) scrape out rough tunes
On common reeds. I am not beautiful,