Between the past and the succeeding night;
They strip, then, smoothed with suppling oil, essay
To pitch the rounded quoit, their wonted play:
A well-pois’d disk first hasty Phœbus threw;
It cleft the air, and whistled as it flew;
It reach’d the mark, a most surprising length,
Which spoke an equal share of art and strength.
Scarce was it fall’n, when with too eager hand
Young Hyacinth ran to snatch it from the sand;
But the curst orb, which met a stony soil,