The Fable of Midas.
MIDAS, we are in Story told,
Turn'd ev'ry thing he touch't to Gold :
He chip't his Bread, the Pieces round
Glitter'd like Spangles on the Ground :
A Codling e'er it went his Lip in,
Would ſtrait become a Golden Pippin :
He call'd for Drink, you ſaw him Sup
Potable Gold in Golden Cup.
His empty Paunch that he might fill,
He ſuck't his Vittels thro' a Quill ;
Untouch't it paſs't between his Grinders,
Or't had been happy for Gold-finders.
He cock't his Hat, you would have ſaid
Mambrino's Helm adorn'd his Head.
Whene'er he chanc'd his Hands to lay,
On Magazines of Corn or Hay,
Gold ready Coin'd appeared, inſtead
Of paultry Provender and Bread :
Hence we are by wiſe Farmers told,
Old Hay is equal to Old Gold ;
And hence a Critick deep maintains,
We learn't to weigh our Gold by Grains.
This Fool had got a lucky Hit,
And People fancy'd he had Wit :
Two Gods their Skill in Muſick try'd,
And both choſe Midas to decide ;
He againſt Phebus Harp decreed,
And gave it for Pan's oaten Reed :
The God of Wit to ſhew his Grudge,
Clap't Aſſes Ears upon me Judge,
A goodly pair, erect and wide,
Which he could neither Gild nor hide.
And now the Virtue of his Hands,
Was loſt among Pactolus Sands,
Againſt whoſe Torrent while he Swims,
The Golden Scurſ peels off his Limbs :
Fame ſpreads the News, and People travel
From far, to gather golden Gravel ;
Midas, expos'd to all their Jears,
Had loſt his Art, and kept his Ears.
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|Description||Anonymous. By Jonathan Swift. First line reads: Midas, we are in story told. In one column.|
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