Phaeton saw there the four seasons. Spring, young and lovely, came first, her head crowned with flowers. Next came Summer, with her robe of roses thrown loosely about her and a garland of ripe wheat upon her head. Then came merry Autumn, his feet stained with grape juice; and last, icy Winter, with frosty beard and hair, and Phaeton shivered as he looked at him. Dazzled by the light, and startled to find himself in such a presence, he stood still.
The Sun, seeing him with the eye that sees everything, asked:
"Why are you here?"
"Apollo, my father, grant me one request, that I may prove to mortals that you are my father."
Apollo laid aside his dazzling crown of rays, clasped Phaeton in his arms and said:
"Brave son, ask what you will, the gift is yours."
Quicker than a flash from his father's crown came the question from Phaeton:
"Will you let me for one day drive your chariot?"
Foolish father, foolish son! Apollo shook his head three times in warning.
"I have spoken rashly. This one thing no mortal can achieve. Nor can any immortal save myself hold in the horses that draw the fiery car of day. It is not honor, but death you ask. Change your wish."