Th’ unhappy quoit which rash Apollo threw,
Obliquely flying, smote his tender brow,
And pale alike he fell, and Phœbus stood,
One pale with guilt, and one with loss of blood;
Whence a new flower with sudden birth appears,
And still the mark of Phœbus’ sorrow wears;
Spring it adorns, and Summer’s scenes supplies
With blooms of various forms and various dyes.”
Ovid gives a slightly different version of the tragedy, which he narrates in the following lines:—
“The mid-day sun now shone with equal light