That tale was done. Another had begun:
this time the teller is Leuconoe—
the pause is brief before the second story.
She speaks; her sisters listen—silently:
“Even the one who guides and shepherds all
with glowing light—the Sun—has been enthralled
Latin [145–70]
by love. His loves are what I now shall tell.
The first to witness the adultery
of Mars and Venus—it is said—was he;
for he’s the god who is the first to see
all things. The Sun was shocked, and he told Vulcan—
the son of Juno, and fair Venus’ husband—
the when and where of all those furtive meetings.
And Vulcan’s mind and hands gave way: he dropped
what he was working on. But once the shock
was over, he began, with subtle care,
to fashion slender chains of bronze—so thin,
the net and snare they formed could not be seen.
There was no fine wool thread, no spiderweb
that hangs down from a ceiling, that could be
compared with his thin net’s transparency.
The slightest touch, the least of movements, was
enough to set the web to work. And then,
around that bed, he draped it cunningly.
“When Venus and her lover went—together—
to bed, they both were soon entwined by that
amazing trap and Vulcan’s craft: the net
had caught them in the act—the pair had clasped.
At once, the god of Lemnos opened wide
the ivory doors, so that he could invite
the other gods to see that obscene sight,
such shame enchained. At this, one deity,
not given to solemnity, said he
would hope and pray that such obscenity
and shame might be his lot. His wish provoked
the laughter of the gods: all heaven spoke,
for many days, of this—told and retold.