LACON.
He ever held it tight as if he thought
Some charm attached to its remaining there.
Perhaps he is right;—know you, Zopyrion,
If that strange voice this morning spoke the truth?
ZOPYRION.
Nay guess;—think of what passed & you can judge.
I dare not—I know nothing of his ears.
LACON.
I am resolved some night when he sleeps sound
To get a peep.—No more,’tis he that comes.
He has now lost the boon that Bacchus gave,
Having bestowed it on the limpid waves.
Now over golden sands Pactolus runs,
And as it flows creates a mine of wealth.
Enter Midas, (with grapes in his hand).
MIDAS.
I see again the trees and smell the flowers
With colours lovelier than the rainbow’s self;
I see the gifts of rich-haired Ceres piled
And eat. (holding up the grapes)
This is not yellow, dirty gold,
But blooms with precious tints, purple and green.
I hate this palace and its golden floor,
Its cornices and rafters all of gold:—
I’ll build a little bower of freshest green,
Canopied o’er with leaves & floored with moss:—
I’ll dress in skins;—I’ll drink from wooden cups
And eat on wooden platters—sleep on flock;
None but poor men shall dare attend on me.
All that is gold I’ll banish from my court,
Gilding shall be high treason to my state,
The very name of gold shall be crime capital[.]
ZOPYRION.
May we not keep our coin?
MIDAS.
No, Zopyrion,
None but the meanest peasants shall have gold.
It is a sordid, base and dirty thing:—
Look at the grass, the sky, the trees, the flowers,
These are Joves treasures & they are not gold:—
Now they are mine, I am no longer cursed.—
The hapless river hates its golden sands,
As it rolls over them, having my gift;—
Poor harmless shores! they now are dirty gold.
How I detest it! Do not the Gods hate gold?
Nature displays the treasures that she loves,
She hides gold deep in the earth & piles above
Mountains & rocks to keep the monster down.
ASPHALION.
They say Apollo’s sunny car is gold.
MIDAS.
Aye, so it is for Gold belongs to him:—
But Phœbus is my bitterest enemy,
And what pertains to him he makes my bane.
ZOPYRION.
What [!] will your Majesty tell the world?—