joined
in succession.

"And now the eleventh Lucifer had closed the lofty host of the stars,
when the king came rejoicing to the Lydian lands, and restored Silenus
to the youth, his foster-child. To him the God, being glad at the
recovery of his foster-father, gave the choice of desiring a favour,
pleasing, {indeed}, but useless, {as it turned out}. He, destined to
make a foolish use of the favour, says, 'Cause that whatever I shall
touch with my body shall be turned into yellow gold.' Liber assents to
his wish, and grants him the hurtful favour, and is grieved that he has
not asked for something better. The Berecynthian hero[9] departs joyful,
and rejoices in his own misfortune, and tries the truth of his promise
by touching everything. And, hardly believing himself, he pulls down a
twig from a holm-oak, growing on a bough not lofty; the twig becomes
gold. He takes up a stone from the ground; the stone, too, turns pale
with gold. He touches a clod, also; by his potent touch the clod becomes
a mass {of gold}. He plucks some dry ears of corn, that wheat is golden.
He holds an apple taken from a tree, you would suppose that the
Hesperides had given it. If he places his fingers upon the lofty
door-posts, {then} the posts are seen to glisten. When, too, he has
washed his hands in the liquid stream, the water flowing from his hands
might have deceived Danae. He scarcely can contain his own hopes in his
mind, imagining everything to be of gold. As he is {thus} rejoicing, his
servants set before him a table supplied with dainties, and not
deficient in parched corn. But then, whether he touches the gifts of
Ceres with his right hand, the gifts of Ceres, {as gold}, become hard;
or if he attempts to bite the dainties with hungry teeth, those
dainties, upon the application of his teeth, shine as yellow plates of
gold. {Bacchus}, the grantor of this favour, he mingles with pure water;
you could see liquid gold flowing through his jaws.

"Astonished at the novelty of his misfortune, being both rich and
wretched, he wishes to escape from his wealth, and {now} he hates what
but so lately he has wished for; no plenty relieves his hunger, dry
thirst parches his throat, and he is deservedly tormented by the {now}
hated gold; and raising his hands towards heaven, and his shining arms,
he says, "Grant me pardon, father Lenaeus; I have done wrong, but have
pity on me, I pray, and deliver me from this specious calamity!"
Bacchus, the gentl