Midas monologue (Act 4) — Proserpine and Midas

Gold! glorious gold! I am made up of gold! I pluck a rose, a silly, fading rose, Its soft, pink petals change to yellow gold; Its stem, its leaves are gold—and what before Was fit for a poor peasant’s festal dress May now adorn a Queen. I lift a stone, A heavy, useless mass, a slave would spurn, What is more valueless? ’Tis solid gold! A king might war on me to win the same. And as I pass my hand thus through the air, A little shower of sightless dust falls down A shower of gold. O, now I am a king! I’ve spread my hands against my palace walls, I’ve set high ladders up, that I may touch Each crevice and each cornice with my hands, And it will all be gold:—a golden palace, Surrounded by a wood of golden trees, Which will bear golden fruits.—The very ground My naked foot treads on is yellow gold, Invaluable gold! my dress is gold! Now I am great! Innumerable armies Wait till my gold collects them round my throne; I see my standard made of woven gold. Waving o’er Asia’s utmost Citadels, Guarded by myriads invincible. Or if the toil of war grows wearisome, I can buy Empires:—India shall be mine, Its blooming beauties, gold-encrusted baths, Its aromatic groves and palaces, All will be mine! Oh, Midas, ass-eared king! I love thee more than any words can tell, That thus thy touch, thou man akin to Gods, Can change all earth to heaven,—Olympian gold! For what makes heaven different from earth! Look how my courtiers come! Magnificent! None shall dare wait on me but those who bear An empire on their backs in sheets of gold. Oh, what a slave I was! my flocks & kine, My vineyards & my corn were all my wealth And men esteemed me rich; but now Great Jove Transcends me but by lightning, and who knows If my gold win not the Cyclopean Powers, And Vulcan, who must hate his father’s rule, To forge me bolts?—and then—but hush! they come.