For where high Tmolus rears his shady brow, And from his cliffs surveys the seas below In his descent, by Sardis bounded here, By the small confines of Hypaepa there, Pan to the nymphs his frolic ditties play’d, Tuning his reeds beneath the checker’d shade. The nymphs are pleased, the boasting sylvan plays, And speaks with slight of great Apollo’s lays. Tmolus was arbiter; the boaster still Accepts the trial with unequal skill. The venerable judge was seated high On his own hill, that seem’d to touch the sky. Above the whispering trees his head he rears, From their encumbering boughs to free his ears; A wreath of oak alone his temples bound, The pendant acorns loosely dangled round. “In me, your judge,” says he, “there’s no delay;” Then bids the goatherd god begin and play. Pan tuned his pipe, and with his rural song Pleased the low taste of all the vulgar throng. Such songs a vulgar judgment mostly please, Midas was there, and Midas judged with these.