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._ [60]
_Zopyr._ 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."
_Mid._ 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._)
_Asph._ 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.
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