King Midas

Gods grant in scorn the greedy prayers of vice,
     Of her huge asking make her hell the worse,
     And her ill brood in their own fire immerse
They give his boon to grasping Averice,
That all he touches fate shall alchemize.
     He heaps, till smothered, his full purse on purse,
     Fruits on his lips become a golden curse
And water stiffens to metallic ice.
Starved soul and heart and flesh that hungers gnaw,
     Mourn the all cursing gold, in pangs and tears;
The Gods laugh, mocking, and the insulted Law
     O’er his hat[?] crown the badge of foly rears;
     All nature flouts the sateless king with jeers,
And reeds sing in the wind: “Midas hath asses’ ears!”