TIMOLUS. 'Tis well remark'd, and on experience founded. I do remember that my fister Ida (Whenas on her own shadowy mount we met, Heav'n's queen, the fister and the wife of Jove, AGNO. If fuch the fate Of him who judg'd aright, what must be his The skill of Midas, fince his fatal wish : Which Bacchus heard, and curs'd him with the gift. And mortal is the confequence. MELINOE. Most true. Besides, I fear him partial; for with Pan He tends the sheep-walks all the live-long day, TIMOLUS. Soft---no more--- 'Tis ours to wifh for Pan, and fear from Phœbus, And holiness of horror. You, ye winds, That make soft, folemn mufic 'mongst the leaves, Be all to ftillnefs hufh'd; and thou their echo SCENE opens, and difcovers Apollo, attended by MIDAS. Begin, celeftial candidates for praise, Begin the tuneful conteft: I, mean while, With heedful notice and attention meet, Will weigh your merits, and decide your cause. APOLLO. From Jove begin the rapturous fong, We are his offspring all; 'Twas he, whofe looks fupremely bright, And fram'd this glorious ball. PAN. Sylvanus, in his shadowy grove, By th' altar on the myrtle mount, Where plays the wood-nymph's favourite fount, CLIO. Parnaffus, where's thy boasted height, Where, Pegasus, thy fire and flight, Where all your thoughts fo bold and free, If Pan o'er Phoebus can prevail, And the great god of verfe fhou'd fail? AGNO. From nature's works, and nature's laws, We find delight, and feek applaufe; The prattling streams and zephyrs bland,' What were all your fragrant bow'rs, We chant to Phœbus, king of day, From peevish March to joyous June He keeps our restless fouls in tune, Phoebus, thy days wou'd feem too long.. Am I not he, who prefcious from on high, Diffufely Diffufely lib'ral, as divinely bright, Eye of the universe and fire of light. PAN. O'er cots and vales, and every fhepherd fwain, With pipe on plain, and nymph in fecret grove, I bleft with these, nor envy nor defire Thy gaudy chariot, or thy golden lyre. CLIO. Soon as the dawn difpels the dark, And ever-wakeful chanticleer, Soon as the evening fhades advance, MELPOMENE. In numbers as fmooth as Callirhoe's stream, Glide the filver-ton'd verfe when Apollo's the theme; While |