Apollo becomes enamoured of the sibyl, and offers to grant whatever she asks—The request is made of a continuance of life for as many years as there are grains in a heap of sand; but the enjoyment of health and beauty are unfortunately forgotten by the applicant.
“I am no deity,” replied the dame, “But mortal, and religious rites disclaim, Yet had avoided death’s tyrannic sway, Had I consented to the god of day. With promises he sought my love, and said: ‘Have all you wish, my fair Cumaean maid.’ I paused: then pointing to a heap of sand, ‘For every grain, to live a year demand.’ But, ah! unmindful of the effect of time, Forgot to covenant for youth and prime. The smiling bloom I boasted once is gone And feeble age with lagging limbs creeps on. Seven centuries have I lived; three more fulfil The period of the years to finish still. Who’ll think that Phoebus, dress’d in youth divine, Had once believed his lustre less than mine? This wither’d frame (so fates have will’d) shall waste To nothing but prophetic words at last.”