It was too late now for repentance. […] “It is to bring me the head of Medusa, with its snaky black locks.” […] It is my turn.” […] It was a clear, starry night. […] It was almost the color of the blood that had flowed from the boy’s forehead.

It is the breath of Zephyrus which gently agitates the leaves. […] It is thy doom! […] It has a close helmet from which the hair, delicately parted on the forehead, half escapes. […] It is indeed divine. […] It is supposed by many, that the Isthmian games were in honour of Portumnus.