Classic Poem

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 Asses eares.

Then Pan with his rude Pipe began the Country-wealth t' advance,
To boast of Cattle, flockes of Sheepe, and Goates on hils that dance,
With much more of this churlish kinde:
That quite transported Midas minde,
And held him rapt as in a trance.

This wrong the God of Musicke scorn'd from such a sottish Judge,
And bent his angry bow at Pan , which made the Piper trudge:
Then Midas head he so did trim
That ev'ry age yet talkes of him
And Phoebus right revenged grudge.