To his sweet lute Apollo sung the motions of the spheres

To his sweet lute Apollo sung the motions of the spheres;
The wondrous order of the stars, whose course divides the years;
And all the mysteries above:
But none of this could Midas move,
Which purchased him, his ass's ears.

Then Pan with his rude pipe began the country wealth t' advance,
To boast of cattle, flocks of sheep, and goats on hills that dance;
With much more of this churlish kind,
That quite transported Midas' mind,
And held him rapt as in a trance.

This wrong the God of Music scorned from such a sottish judge,
And bent his angry bow at Pan, which made the piper trudge:
Then Midas' head he so did trim
That every age yet talks of him
And Phoebus' right-revenged grudge.