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?
Her. Who killed him? Who could have the heart? That lovely boy!
Ap. It was the work of my own hand.
Her. You must have been mad!
Ap. Not mad; it was an accident.
Her. Oh? and how did it happen?
Ap. He was learning to throw the quoit, and I was throwing with him. I had just sent my quoit up into the air as usual, when jealous Zephyr (damned be he above all winds! he had long been in love with Hyacinth, though Hyacinth would have nothing to say to him)--Zephyr came blustering down from Taygetus, and dashed the quoit upon the child's head; blood flowed from the wound in streams, and in one moment all was over. My first thought was of revenge; I lodged an arrow in Zephyr, and pursued his flight to the mountain. As for the child, I buried him at Amyclae, on the fatal spot; and from his blood I have caused a flower to spring up, sweetest, fairest of flowers, inscribed with letters of woe.--Is my grief unreasonable?
Her. It is, Apollo. You knew that you had set your heart upon a mortal: grieve not then for his mortality.