Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/81



IDAS, we are in story told, Turn'd every thing he touch'd to gold: He chipp'd his bread; the pieces round Glitter'd like spangles on the ground: A codling, ere it went his lip in, Would straight 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'd his victuals through a quill: Untouch'd it pass'd between his grinders, Or 't had been happy for gold-finders: He cock'd 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 paltry provender and bread; Hence by wise farmers we are told, Old hay is equal to old gold; And hence a critick deep maintains, We learn'd 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 Phœbus' harp decreed, And gave it for Pan's oaten reed: The god of wit, to show his grudge, Clapt asses' ears upon the judge; Rh