Fame, on the other hand, stood there ashamed, embarrassed, despairing.

First she just laughed, saying: "Gods, be not deceived. It's a masque.

I know my hero too well to be fooled by disguises of actors."

Soon, though, in pain she perceived: Hercules, none but he.

(Vulcan had not been one thousandth so vexed to discover his playmate

Under his meshes ensnared, caught with his own lusty friend,

Lying just as the wiles of the net at the most crucial moment

Deftly embraced their embrace, trapping their instant of joy.

How those boys, Bacchus and Mercury, guffawed, and freely admitted:

Sweet must be the repose, lying on bosom so fine

Of this magnificent woman. They turned to Vulcan entreating:

"Do not release them just yet. Let us inspect them once more."

And the old cuckold was cuckold enough to comply with their wishes.)

As for poor Fame, in all haste, burning with wrath she must flee.

Since then no armistice has been proclaimed to the feuding between them.