_Zopyr._ '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--
_Mid._ Begone, ye slaves!
Go clothe your wretched limbs in ragged skins!
Take an old carpet to wrap round your legs,
A broad leaf for your feet--ye shall not wear [55]
That dress--those golden sandals--monarch like.
_Asph._ If you would have us walk a mile a day
We cannot thus--already we are tired
With the huge weight of soles of solid gold.
_Mid._ 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.
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