The Hours have oped the palace of the dawn And through the Eastern gates of Heaven, Aurora Comes charioted on light, her wind-swift steeds, Winged with roseate clouds, strain up the steep. She loosely holds the reins, her golden hair, Its strings outspread by the sweet morning breeze (,) Blinds the pale stars. Our rural tasks begin; The young lambs bleat pent up within the fold, The herds low in their stalls, & the blithe cock Halloos most loudly to his distant mates. But who are these we see? these are not men, Divine of form & sple (n) didly arrayed, They sit in solemn conclave. Is that Pan, Our Country God, surrounded by his Fauns? And who is he whose crown of gold & harp Are attributes of high Apollo? (ZOPYRION: Best Your majesty retire; we may offend.) Aye, and at the base thought the coward blood Deserts your trembling lips; but follow me. Oh Gods! for such your bearing is, & sure No mortal ever yet possessed the gold That glitters on your silken robes; may one, Who, though a king, can boast of no descent More noble than Deucalion’s stone-formed men (,) May I demand the cause for which you deign To print upon this worthless Phrygian earth The vestige of your gold-inwoven sandals, Or why that old white-headed man sits there Upon that grassy throne, & looks as he Were stationed umpire to some weighty cause (?)

Midas Monologue from Proserpine and Midas

Rehearse Midas's monologue