Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/133

Book 11. The Mountain Sire with grave Deportment now To Phœbus turns his venerable Brow; And, as he turns, with him the listning Wood In the same Posture of Attention stood. The God his own Parnassian Laurel crown'd, And in a Wreath his golden Tresses bound, Graceful his purply Mantle swept the Ground. High on the Left his Iv'ry Lute he rais'd, The Lute, emboss'd with glitt'ring Jewels, blaz'd. In his right Hand he nicely held the Quill, His easy Posture spoke a Master's Skill. The Strings he touch'd with more than human Art, Which pleas'd the Judge's Ear, and sooth'd his Heart; Who soon judiciously the Palm decreed, And to the Lute postpon'd the squeaking Reed. All, with applause, the rightful Sentence heard, Midas alone dissatisfy'd appear'd; To him unjustly giv'n the judgment seems, For Pan's barbarick Notes he most esteems: The Lyrick God, who thought his untun'd Ear Deserv'd but ill a human Form to wear, Of that deprives him, and supplies the Place With some more fit, and of an ampler Space: Fix'd on his Noddle an unseemly Pair, Flagging, and large, and full of whitish Hair; Without a total Change from what he was, Still in the Man preserve the simple Ass. He, to conceal the Scandal of the Deed, A purple Turbant folds about his Head; Veils the Reproach from publick view, and fears The laughing World would spy his monstrous Ears. One trusty Barber-Slave, that us'd to dress His Master's Hair, when lengthen'd to Excess. The mighty Secret knew, but knew alone, And, tho' impatient, durst not make it known. Rh