1 To his sweet Lute Apollo sung the motions of the Spheares ; The wondrous order of the Starsm whose course diuides the yeares : And all the Mysteries aboue ; But none of this could Midas moue, Which purchast him his Asses eares. 2 Then Pan with his rude Pipe began the Country-wealth t'aduance ; 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. 3 This wrong the God of Musicke scorn'd from such a sottish Iudge, And bent his angry bow at Pan, which made the Piper trudge : Then Midas head he so did trim, That eu'ry age yet talkes of him And Phoebus right reuenged grudge.
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