Midas the king, as in his book appears,
  By Phoebus was endow’d with ass’s ears,
  Which under his long locks he well conceal’d,
  (As monarchs’ vices must not be reveal’d) 160
  For fear the people have them in the wind,
  Who long ago were neither dumb nor blind: 
  Nor apt to think from Heaven their title springs,
  Since Jove and Mars left off begetting kings. 
  This Midas knew; and durst communicate
  To none but to his wife his ears of state: 
  One must be trusted, and he thought her fit,
  As passing prudent, and a parlous wit. 
  To this sagacious confessor he went,
  And told her what a gift the gods had sent:  170
  But told it under matrimonial seal,
  With strict injunction never to reveal. 
  The secret heard, she plighted him her troth,
  (And sacred sure is every woman’s oath)
  The royal malady should rest unknown,
  Both for her husband’s honour and her own;
  But ne’ertheless she pined with discontent;
  The counsel rumbled till it found a vent. 
  The thing she knew she was obliged to hide;
  By interest and by oath the wife was tied; 180
  But if she told it not, the woman died. 
  Loath to betray a husband and a prince,
  But she must burst, or blab; and no pretence
  Of honour tied her tongue from self-defence. 
  A marshy ground commodiously was near,
  Thither she ran, and held her breath for fear;
  Lest if a word she spoke of any thing,
  That word might be the secret of the king. 
  Thus full of counsel to the fen she went,
  Griped all the way, and longing for a vent; 190
  Arrived, by pure necessity compell’d,
  On her majestic marrow-bones she kneel’d: 
  Then to the water’s brink she laid her head,
  And as a bittour[79] bumps within a reed,
  To thee alone, O lake, she said, I tell,
  (And, as thy queen, command thee to conceal!)
  Beneath his locks the king, my husband wears
  A goodly royal pair of ass’s ears: 
  Now I have eased my bosom of the pain,
  Till the next longing fit return again. 200

    Thus through a woman was the secret known;
  Tell us, and in effect you tell the town. 
  But to my tale; the knight with heavy cheer,
  Wandering in vain, had now consumed the year: 
  One day was only left to solve the doubt,
  Yet knew no more than when he first set out. 
  But home he must, and as the award had been,
  Yield up his body captive to the queen. 
  In this despairing state he happ’d to ride,
  As fortune led him, by a forest side:  210
  Lonely the vale, and full of horror stood,
  Brown with the shade of a religious wood! 
  When full before him, at the noon of night,
  (The moon was up, and shot a gleamy light)