Her. If you don’t stop being rude, I shall soon show you that immortality is not much good. I will take you up and pitch you head over heels out of Heaven, and Apollo himself shall never mend your broken crown.
Zeus. Cease, I say, and let us hear ourselves speak, or I will send you both away from table. Heracles, Asclepius died before you, and has the right to a better place.
H.
XIV
Hermes. Apollo
Her. Why so sad, Apollo?
Ap. Alas, Hermes,—my love!
Her. Oh; that’s bad. What, are you still brooding over that affair of Daphne?
Ap. No. I grieve for my beloved; the Laconian, the son of Oebalus.
Her. Hyacinth? he is not dead?