Nor this sufficed; the god’s disgust remains, And he resolves to quit their hated plains: The vineyards of Tymole engross his care, And with a better choir he fixes there; Where the smooth streams of clear Pactolus roll’d, Then undistinguish’d for its sands of gold. The satyrs with the nymphs, his usual throng, Come to salute their god, and jovial dance along: Silenus only miss’d; for while he reel’d, Feeble with age and wine, about the field, The hoary drunkard had forgot his way, And to the Phrygian clowns became a prey; Who to King Midas drag the captive god, While on his totty pate the wreaths of ivy nod.