MIDAS. Pitiful wretches! Earth-born, groveling dolts! Begone! nor dare reply to my just wrath! Never behold me more! or if you stay Let not a sigh, a shrug, a stoop betray What poor, weak, miserable men you are. Not as I—I am a God! Look, dunce! I tread or leap beneath this load of gold! (_Jumps & stops suddenly_.) I’ve hurt my back:—this cloak is wondrous hard! No more of this! my appetite would say The hour is come for my noon-day repast. LACON. It comes borne in by twenty lusty slaves, Who scarce can lift the mass of solid gold, That lately was a table of light wood. Here is the heavy golden ewer & bowl, In which, before you eat, you wash your hands. MIDAS. (_lifting up the ewer_) This is to be a king! to touch pure gold! Would that by touching thee, Zopyrion, I could transmute thee to a golden man; A crowd of golden slaves to wait on me! (_Pours the water on his hands_.) But how is this? the water that I touch Falls down a stream of yellow liquid gold, And hardens as it falls. I cannot wash— Pray Bacchus, I may drink! and the soft towel With which I’d wipe my hands transmutes itself Into a sheet of heavy gold.—No more! I’ll sit and eat:—I have not tasted food For many hours, I have been so wrapt In golden dreams of all that I possess, I had not time to eat; now hunger calls And makes me feel, though not remote in power From the immortal Gods, that I need food, The only remnant of mortality! (_In vain attempts to eat of several dishes_.) Alas! my fate! ’tis gold! this peach is gold! This bread, these grapes & all I touch! this meat Which by its scent quickened my appetite Has lost its scent, its taste,—’tis useless gold. ZOPYRION. (_aside_) He’d better now have followed my advice. He starves by gold yet keeps his asses’ ears. MIDAS. Asphalion, put that apple to my mouth; If my hands touch it not perhaps I eat. Alas! I cannot bite! as it approached I felt its fragrance, thought it would be mine, But by the touch of my life-killing lips ’Tis changed from a sweet fruit to tasteless gold, Bacchus will not refresh me by his gifts, The liquid wine congeals and flies my taste. Go, miserable slaves! Oh, wretched king! Away with food! Its sight now makes me sick. Bring in my couch! I will sleep off my care, And when I wake I’ll coin some remedy. I dare not bathe this sultry day, for fear I be enclosed in gold. Begone! I will to rest:—oh, miserable king! (_Exeunt all but Midas. He lies down, turns restlessly for some time & then rises_.)