THE MISER'S SPEECH. IN A MASQUE.

Balls of this metal slack'd At'lanta's pace, And on the am'rous youth[1] bestow'd the race; Venus (the nymph's mind measuring by her own), Whom the rich spoils of cities overthrown Had prostrated to Mars, could well advise Th' advent'rous lover how to gain the prize. Nor less may Jupiter to gold ascribe; For, when he turn'd himself into a bribe, Who can blame Danaë[2], or the brazen tower, That they withstood not that almighty shower 10 Never till then did love make Jove put on A form more bright, and nobler than his own; Nor were it just, would he resume that shape, That slack devotion should his thunder 'scape. 'Twas not revenge for griev'd Apollo's wrong, 15 Those ass's ears on Midas' temples hung, But fond repentance of his happy wish, Because his meat grew metal like his dish. Would Bacchus bless me so, I'd constant hold Unto my wish, and die creating gold.

[1] 'Am'rous youth': Hippomenes. [2] Transcriber's note: The original text has a single dot over the second "a" and another over the "e", rather than the more conventional diaresis shown here.