the ferns and plunged her foot into the water.
Then the nymphs dived up.
“Psyche! Psyche!” cried they joyously, “Psyche with the splendid wings!”
Psyche smiled. She threw herself into the water, and the snow-white foam dashed up.
“Let me be with you a moment,” entreated Psyche. “Let me cool myself in your stream.”
The nymphs pressed round her and carried her on their arms. She lay down at full length.
“Cool my forehead, cool my cheeks, cool my heart!” she cried imploringly. “Dear nymphs, oh, cool my soul! Everything burns on me and in me; fire scorches my lips, fire scorches my brain. . . . O dear nymphs, cool me!”
The nymphs sprinkled water on her; Psyche put her arm round the neck of one of them.
“Your water-drops hiss on my forehead as on burning metal. Your flakes of foam evaporate on the fire in my breast. And on my soul, O dear nymphs, you cannot sprinkle your coolness!”
