MIDAS.
No more, thou slave!
Gold is my fear, my bane, my death! I hate
Its yellow glare, its aspect hard and cold.
I would be rid of all.—Go bid them haste.
(Exit Lacon.)
Oh, Bacchus I be propitious to their prayer!
Make me a hind, clothe me in ragged skins—
And let my food be bread, unsavoury roots,
But take from me the frightful curse of gold.
Am I not poor? Alas! how I am changed!
Poorer than meanest slaves, my piles of wealth
Cannot buy for me one poor, wretched dish:—
In summer heat I cannot bathe, nor wear
A linen dress; the heavy, dull, hard metal
Clings to me till I pray for poverty.
Enter Zopyrion, Asphalion & Lacon.
ZOPYRION.
The sacrifice is made, & the great God,
Pitying your ills, oh King, accepted it,
Whilst his great oracle gave forth these words.
“Let poor king Midas bathe in the clear stream
“Of swift Pactolus, & to those waves tranfer
“The gold-transmuting power, which he repents.”
MIDAS.
Oh joy! Oh Bacchus, thanks for this to thee
Will I each year offer three sucking lambs—
Games will I institute—nor Pan himself
Shall have more honour than thy deity.
Haste to the stream,—I long to feel the cool
And liquid touch of its divinest waves.
(Exeunt all except Zopyrion and Asphalion.)
ASPHALION.
Off with our golden sandals and our cloaks!
Oh, I shall ever hate the sight of gold!
Poor, wealthy Midas runs as if from death
To rid him quick of this meta[l]lic curse.
ZOPYRION.
(aside) I wonder if his asses[’] ears are gold;
What would I give to let the secret out?
Gold! that is trash, we have too much of it,—
But I would give ten new born lambs to tell
This most portentous truth—but I must choke.
ASPHALION.
Now we shall tend our flocks and reap our corn
As we were wont, and not be killed by gold.
Golden fleeces threatened our poor sheep,
The very showers as they fell from heaven
Could not refresh the earth; the wind blew gold,
And as we walked[[1]] the thick sharp-pointed atoms
Wounded our faces—the navies would have sunk—