There was a king named midas, and what he loved best in the world was gold. he had plenty of his own, but he could not bear the thought of anyone else having any. each morning he awoke very early to watch the sunrise and said, "of all the gods, if gods there be, i like you least, apollo. how dare you ride so unthriftily in your sun-chariot, scattering golden sheaves of light on rich and poor alike—on king and peasant, on merchant, shepherd, warrior? this is an evil thing, oh wastrel god, for only kings should have gold; only the rich know what to do with it."