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! [59]
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,