Oh! fool! to wish to change all things to gold! Blind Ideot that I was! This bed is gold; And this hard, weighty pillow, late so soft, That of itself invited me to rest, Is a hard lump, that if I sleep and turn I may beat out my brains against its sides. Oh! what a wretched thing I am! how blind! I cannot eat, for all my food is gold; Drink flies my parched lips, and my hard couch Is worse than rock to my poor bruised sides. I cannot walk; the weight of my gold soles Pulls me to earth:—my back is broke beneath These gorgeous garments— (_throws off his cloak_) Lie there, golden cloak! There on thy kindred earth, lie there and rot! I dare not touch my forehead with my palm For fear my very flesh should turn to gold. Oh! let me curse thee, vilest, yellow dirt! Here, on my knees, thy martyr lifts his voice, A poor, starved wretch who can touch nought but thee[,] Wilt thou refresh me in the heat of noon? Canst thou be kindled for me when I’m cold? May all men, & the immortal Gods, Hate & spurn thee as wretched I do now. (_Kicks the couch, & tries to throw down the pillow but cannot lift it_.) I’d dash, thee to the earth, but that thy weight Preserves thee, abhorred, Tartarian Gold! Bacchus, O pity, pardon, and restore me! Who waits? Enter Lacon. Go bid the priests that they prepare Most solemn song and richest sacrifise;— Which I may not dare touch, lest it should turn To most unholy gold. LACON. Pardon me, oh King, But perhaps the God may give that you may eat, And yet your touch be magic. 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 tran[s]fer “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.