To his sweet Lute

To his sweet Lute Apollo sung the motions of the Spheares;

The wondrous order of the Stars, whose course divides the yeares:

And all the Mysteries above;

But none of this could Midas move,

Which purchast him his Asseseares.

The Pan with his rude Pipe began the Country-wealth t'advance;

To boast of Cattle, flocks of Sheepe and Goates, on hils that dance,

With much more of this chulrlish kinde:

That quite transported Midas minde,

And held him rapt as in a trance.

This wrong the God of Musicke scorned from such a scottish Judge,

And bent his angry bow at Pan, which made the Piper trudge:

Then Midas head he did so trim,

That ev'ra age yet talkes of him

And Phoebus right revenged grudge.