THis Tale inclines the gentle Reader;
To think upon a certain Leader,
To whom from Midas down, deſcends
That Virtue in the Fingers ends:
What elſe by Perquiſites are meant,
By Penſions, Bribes, and three per Cent ?
By Places and Commiſſjons ſold,
And turning Dung it ſelf to Gold ?
By ſtarving in the midſt of Store,
As t'other Midas did before?

None e'er did modern Midas chuſe,
Subject or Patron of his Muſe,
But found him thus their Merit Scan,
That Phebus muſt give Place to Pan:
He values not the Poet's Praiſe,
Nor will exchange His Plumbs for Bays:
To Tan alone rich Miſers call,
And there's the Jeſt, for Pan is ALL :
Here Engliſh Wits will be to ſeek,
Howe'er, 'tis all one in the Greek.

Beſides, it plainly now appears,
Our Midas too has Aſſes Ears;
Where every Fool his Mouth applies,
And whiſpers in a thouſand Lies ;
Such groſs Deluſions could not paſc,
Thro' any Ears but of an Aſs.

But Gold defiles with frequent Touch,
There's nothing fouls the Hands ſo much:
And Scholars give it for the Cauſe,
Of Britiſh Midas dirty Paws ;
Which while the Senate ſtrove to ſcower,
They waſht away the Chymich Power.
While He his utmoſt Strength apply'd,
To Swim againſt this Pop'lar Tide,
The Golden Spoils flew off apace,
Here fell a Penſion, there a Place :
The Torrent, mercileſs, imbibes
Commiſſions, Perquiſites, and Briles,
By their own Weight ſunk to the Bottom;
Much good may do 'em that have caught um.
And Midas now neglected ſtands,
With Aſſes Ears, and dirty Hands,

       Printed for John Morphew near Stationers-Hall,1712.