Take me, too, then, Hermes, and place me somewhere in the front rows, for I am golden.
Not as far as I can see, Aphrodite. Unless I am exceedingly blear-eyed, you were quarried out of the white stone of Pentele, and then, at the good pleasure of Praxiteles, you became Aphrodite and were handed over to the Knidians.
But I will furnish you a trustworthy referee in Homer, who, up and down in his poetry, declares me "golden Aphrodite."
Oh, Homer says that Apollo, too, is full of gold and rich, but now you will see him sitting somewhere in the worst seats, for the robbers took his crown and stripped the pegs from his lyre. So you may congratulate yourself that you are not placed down among the servants.