And yet your touch be magic.

_Mid._ No more, thou slave!
Gold is my fear, my bane, my death! I hate
Its yellow glare, its aspect hard and cold.
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