ACT II.--SCENE I.

_Puck and a Fairy._

_Puck._ How now, spirit! whither wander you?

_Fai._ Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough briar, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire. I do wander every where, Swifter than the moonès sphere, And I serve the Fairy-queen, To dew her orbs upon the green. The cowslips tall her pensioners be; In their gold coats spots you see. Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours. I must go seek some dew-drops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.[390] Farewell, thou lob of spirits! I'll be gone; Our queen and all her elves come here anon.

_Puck._ The king doth keep his revels here to-night. Take heed the queen come not within his sight; For Oberon is passing fell and wroth, Because that she, as her attendant, hath A lovely boy stolen from an Indian king,-- She never had so sweet a changeling; And jealous Oberon would have the child Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild; But she, perforce, withholds the loved boy, Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy And now they never meet in grove or green, By fountain clear, or spangled star-light sheen, But they do square; that all their elves, for fear, Creep into acorn cups, and hide them there.

_Fai._ Either I mistake your shape and making quite, Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite Call'd Robin Good-fellow. Are you not he _That frights the maidens of the villagery, Skims milk, and sometimes labours in the quern, And bootless makes the breathless housewife churn; And sometimes makes the drink to bear no barm; Misleads night-wanderers, laughing at their harm? Those that Hob-goblin call you, and sweet Puck, You do their work, and they shall have good luck_, Are not you he?

_Puck._ Thou speakest aright, I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon, and make him smile, _When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, Neighing in likeness of a filly-foal_; And sometimes lurk I in a gossip's bowl, In very likeness of a roasted crab, And when she drinks, against her lips I bob, And on her withered dewlap pour the ale. The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, Sometimes for three-foot stool mistaketh me: Then slip I from her bum,--down topples she, And _tailor_ cries, and falls into a cough; And then the whole quire hold their hips and loffe, And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear A merrier hour was never wasted there.

The haunts of the Fairies on earth are the most rural and romantic that can be selected. They meet

On hill, in dale, forest or mead, By paved fountain, or by rushy brook, Or on the beached margent of the sea, To dance their ringlets to the whistling wind.

And the place of Titania's repose is

A bank whereon the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine. There sleeps Titania, some time of the night Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight; And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin, Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.

The powers of the poet are exerted to the utmost, to convey an idea of their minute dimensions; and time, with them, moves on lazy pinions. "Come," cries the queen,

Come now, a roundel and a fairy song, Then for the third part of a minute hence: Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds; Some war with rear-mice for their leathern wings, To make my small elves coats.

And when enamoured of Bottom, she directs her Elves that they should

Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes; Feed him with apricocks and dewberries, With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries. The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees, And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs, And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes; To have my love to bed, and to arise And pluck the wings from painted butterflies, To fan the moon-beams from his sleeping eyes.

Puck goes "swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow;" he says, "he'll put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes;" and "We," says Oberon--

We the globe can compass soon, Swifter than the wandering moon.

They are either not mortal, or their date of life is indeterminately long; they are of a nature superior to man, and speak with contempt of human follies. By night they revel beneath the light of the moon and stars, retiring at the approach of "Aurora's harbinger,"[391] but not compulsively like ghosts and "damned spirits."

But we (says Oberon) are spirits of another sort; I with the morning's love have oft made sport, And like a forester the groves may tread, Even till the eastern gate, all fiery red, Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams, Turns into yellow gold his salt-green streams.

In the Merry Wives of Windsor, we are introduced to mock-fairies, modelled, of course, after the real ones, but with such additions as the poet's fancy deemed itself authorised to adopt.