ACT II
Scene; a splendid apartment in the Palace of Midas.
Enter Midas
(with a golden rose in his hand).
MIDAS.
Gold! glorious gold! I am made up of gold!
I pluck a rose, a silly, fading rose,
Its soft, pink petals change to yellow gold;
Its stem, its leaves are gold—and what before
Was fit for a poor peasant’s festal dress
May now adorn a Queen. I lift a stone,
A heavy, useless mass, a slave would spurn,
What is more valueless? ’Tis solid gold!
A king might war on me to win the same.
And as I pass my hand thus through the air,
A little shower of sightless dust falls down
A shower of gold. O, now I am a king!
I’ve spread my hands against my palace walls,
I’ve set high ladders up, that I may touch
Each crevice and each cornice with my hands,
And it will all be gold:—a golden palace,
Surrounded by a wood of golden trees,
Which will bear golden fruits.—The very ground
My naked foot treads on is yellow gold,
Invaluable gold! my dress is gold!
Now I am great! Innumerable armies
Wait till my gold collects them round my throne;
I see my standard made of woven gold.
Waving o’er Asia’s utmost Citadels,
Guarded by myriads invincible.
Or if the toil of war grows wearisome,
I can buy Empires:—India shall be mine,
Its blooming beauties, gold-encrusted baths,
Its aromatic groves and palaces,
All will be mine! Oh, Midas, ass-eared king!
I love thee more than any words can tell,
That thus thy touch, thou man akin to Gods,
Can change all earth to heaven,—Olympian gold!
For what makes heaven different from earth!
Look how my courtiers come! Magnificent!
None shall dare wait on me but those who bear
An empire on their backs in sheets of gold.
Oh, what a slave I was! my flocks & kine,
My vineyards & my corn were all my wealth
And men esteemed me rich; but now Great Jove
Transcends me but by lightning, and who knows
If my gold win not the Cyclopean Powers,
And Vulcan, who must hate his father’s rule,
To forge me bolts?—and then—but hush! they come.
Enter Zopyrion, Asphalion, & Lacon.
LACON.
Pardon us, mighty king—
MIDAS.
What would ye, slaves?
Oh! I could buy you all with one slight touch
Of my gold-making hand!
ASPHALION.
Royal Midas,
We humbly would petition for relief.
MIDAS.
Relief I Bring me your copper coin, your brass,
Or what ye will—ye’ll speedily be rich.
ZOPYRION.
’Tis not for gold, but to be rid of gold,
That we intrude upon your Majesty.
I fear that you will suffer by this gift,
As we do now. Look at our backs bent down
With the huge weight of the great cloaks of gold.
Permit us to put on our shabby dress,
Our poor despised garments of light wool:—
We walk as porters underneath a load.
Pity, great king, our human weaknesses,
Nor force us to expire—