Midas from Orpheus had been taught his Lore,
And knew the Rites of Bacchus long before.
He, when he saw his venerable Guest,
In Honour of the God ordain'd a Feast.
Ten Days in Course, with each continu'd Night,
Were spent in genial mirth, and brisk Delight:
Then on th' Eleventh, when with brighter Ray
Phosphor had chac'd the fading Stars away,
The King thro' Lydia's Fields young Bacchus sought,
And to the God his Foster Father brought.
Pleas'd with the welcome Sight, he bids him soon
But name his Wish, and swears to grant the Boon.
A glorious Offer! yet but ill bestow'd
On him whose Choice so little Judgment show'd.
Give me, says he, (nor thought he ask'd too much)
That with my Body wheresoe'er I touch,
Chang'd from the Nature which it held of old,
May be converted into yellow Gold.
He had his Wish; But yet the God repin'd,
To think the Fool no better Wish could find.
But the brave King departed from the Place,
With Smiles of Gladness sparkling in his Face;
Nor could contain, but, as he took his Way,
Impatient longs to Make the first Essay.
Down from a lowly Branch a Twig he drew,
The Twig strait glitter'd with a golden Hue:
He takes a Stone, the Stone was turn'd to Gold;
A Clod he touches, and the crumbling Mold
Acknowledg'd soon the great transforming Pow'r,
In Weight and Substance like a Mass of Ore.
He pluck'd the Corn, and strait his Grasp appears
Fill'd with a bending Tuft of Golden Ears.
An Apple next he takes, and seems to hold
The bright Hesperian vegetable Gold.
His Hand he careless on a Pillar lays,
With shining Gold the fluted Pillars blaze:
And
