“Homely flowers give the sweetest honey,” said the reed-player, who had risen and presented himself before the happy group.
“Ah, a poet! What dost thou call thyself, O son of Pan?” asked Sulpicius.
“I am sometimes called Narcissus.”
“Ha, ha! and why, forsooth?”
“My words bloom and die like flowers.”
“Ay, but that is true of all words.”
“Nay, O Sunny Life. Beautiful and fragile are the words of Narcissus.”
“And yellow?”
“The sun is golden,” he replied, lightly playing upon the word.
“Then, thou flowery poet, give us a song. Well shalt thou be paid if thou dost please us.”