There is nothing you have not turned me into—satyr, bull, gold pieces, swan, eagle; but you never yet have made a single woman fall in love with me for myself, nor have I ever been able to make myself agreeable in any quarter in my own person, but I have to use magic in all such affairs, and disguise myself. And after all, it's the bull or the swan they fall in love with; if they see me, they die of terror.
Cup. Yes, no wonder; they are but mortal, you know, Jupiter, and can't endure your awful person.
Jup. How is it, then, that Apollo gets them to fall in love with him?
Cup. Well—Daphne, you know, ran away from him, for all his flowing locks and smooth face. But if you want to make yourself attractive, you mustn't shake your ægis, and carry your thunderbolt about with you, but make yourself look as pleasant as you can,—let your hair hang down on both sides of your face in curls,—put a fillet round it,—get a purple dress,—put on gilded sandals,—walk with the fashionable step, with a pipe and timbrel before you: you'll see, the women will run after you then, faster than the Mœnads do after Bacchus.
Jup. Away with you—I couldn't condescend to be attractive by making myself such a fool as that.
Cup. Very well, Jupiter, then give up love-making altogether; (looking slyly at him)—that's easy enough, you know.
Jup. Nay, I must go on with my courting, but you must find me some less troublesome fashion than that. And upon this sole condition, I let you off once more.
