Psyche was roughly shaken awake. “Up, you lazy girl. I have another task for you,” hissed Aphrodite. “A short walk from this house is a pasture divided by the stream where you were about to kill yourself.”
Psyche shuddered.
“Across from that stream are a flock of golden sheep. Get me some of their wool before dusk.” With a whirl of silk and the scent of roses, the goddess of love stalked away.
Half an hour later, Psyche was staring dejectedly into the same waters she had been yesterday. (Was it only yesterday?) I should just kill myself now and get it over with, she thought.
But remember, the river gurgled, I don’t want to be stained with homicide.
“What can you do about my misery?” Psyche challenged it.
Not much, I’m afraid. But I can tell you the one thing that will make you succeed.
Psyche waited patiently.
Don’t cross into the pasture until after noontime, because the sheep are maneaters. After noon, they won’t be hungry, and you can pick the wool off the bushes they rubbed against.