Book 24
2
I knew all that. That’s why I held out for a long time and wouldn’t trust him to drive. But when he started weeping and begging and imploring, and his mother Clymene joined in, I planted him in the car and told him how to stand, how long he was to climb giving the horses their head, how long to descend again, and how to be in control of the reins and keep his mettlesome team in check. Yes, and I warned him how dangerous it was not to drive straight, but the poor boy, mounted on so great a fire and looking down on yawning space, lost his nerve, and can you wonder? Then the horses, sensing it wasn’t me in the chariot, didn’t care two hoots for the lad and left their course with these terrible results. He dropped the reins—I suppose he was afraid of falling out, and clung to the rail. But he’s already had his punishment, Zeus, and my grief is punishment enough for me.
3
Punishment enough, you say, for such effrontery? All right, I forgive you this time, but if ever again you commit such an offence, or send out another like him in your place, you’ll soon find out my thunderbolt’s a lot hotter than your fire. The boy, then, can be buried by his sisters beside the Eridanus, where he fell after the spill. They can weep tears of amber over him and become poplars in their sorrow, and you’d better patch up your car—the pole’s broken and one of the wheels is in smithereens—bring up your horses and get on with your round. And I hope you won’t forget all this in a hurry.
