Her. To think that a cripple and a blacksmith like him should marry two such queens of beauty as Aphrodite and Charis!
Ap. Luck, Hermes--that is all. But I do wonder at their putting up with his company; they see him running with
sweat, bent over the forge, all sooty-faced; and yet they cuddle and kiss him, and sleep with him!
Her. Yes, it makes me angry too; how I envy him! Ah, Apollo, you may let your locks grow, and play your harp, and be proud of your looks; I am a healthy fellow, and can touch the lyre; but, when it comes to bedtime, we lie alone.
Ap. Well, my loves never prosper; Daphne and Hyacinth were my great passions; she so detested me that being turned to a tree was more attractive than I; and him I killed with a quoit. Nothing is left me of them but wreaths of their leaves and flowers.
Her. Ah, once, once, I and Aphrodite--but no; no boasting.
Ap. I know; that is how Hermaphroditus is accounted for. But perhaps you can tell me how it is that Aphrodite and Charis are not jealous of one another.
Her. Because one is his wife in Lemnus and the other in Heaven. Besides, Aphrodite cares most about Ares; he is her real love; so she does not trouble her head about the blacksmith.
Ap. Do you think Hephaestus sees?
Her. Oh, he sees, yes; but what can he do? he knows what a martial young fellow it is; so he holds his tongue. He talks of inventing a net, though, to take them in the act with.
Ap. Ah, all I know is, I would not mind being taken in that act.