s: there is no need you should keep growing long, Cyllenian,
son of Maia!'

(ll. 409-414) So saying, Apollo twisted strong withes with his hands
meaning to bind Hermes with firm bands; but the bands would not hold
him, and the withes of osier fell far from him and began to grow at once
from the ground beneath their feet in that very place. And intertwining
with one another, they quickly grew and covered all the wild-roving
cattle by the will of thievish Hermes, so that Apollo was astonished as
he gazed.

(ll. 414-435) Then the strong slayer of Argus looked furtively upon
the ground with eyes flashing fire.... desiring to hide.... ((LACUNA))
....Very easily he softened the son of all-glorious Leto as he would,
stern though the Far-shooter was. He took the lyre upon his left arm and
tried each string in turn with the key, so that it sounded awesomely at
his touch. And Phoebus Apollo laughed for joy; for the sweet throb of
the marvellous music went to his heart, and a soft longing took hold on
his soul as he listened. Then the son of Maia, harping sweetly upon his
lyre, took courage and stood at the left hand of Phoebus Apollo; and
soon, while he played shrilly on his lyre, he lifted up his voice and
sang, and lovely was the sound of his voice that followed. He sang the
story of the deathless gods and of the dark earth, how at the first they
came to be, and how each one received his portion. First among the gods
he honoured Mnemosyne, mother of the Muses, in his song; for the son of
Maia was of her following. And next the goodly son of Zeus hymned the
rest of the immortals according to their order in age, and told how each
was born, mentioning all in order as he struck the lyre upon his arm.
But Apollo was seized with a longing not to be allayed, and he opened
his mouth and spoke winged words to Hermes:

(ll. 436-462) 'Slayer of oxen, trickster, busy one, comrade of the
feast, this song of yours is worth fifty cows, and I believe that
presently we shall settle our quarrel peacefully. But come now, tell me
this, resourceful son of Maia: has this marvellous thing been with you
from your birth, or did some god or mortal man give it you--a noble
gift--and teach you heavenly song? For wonderful is this new-uttered
sound I hear, the like of which I vow that no man nor god dwelling on
Olympus ever yet has known but you, O thievish son of Maia. What skill
is this? What song for desperate cares? What way of song? For verily
here