PUCK
How now, spirit! whither wander you?
FAIRY
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush,
thorough brier,
Over park, over
pale,
Thorough flood,
thorough fire,
I do wander
everywhere,
Swifter than
the moon's 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 dewdrops here
And hang a pearl
in every cowslip's ear.
Farewell, thou
lob of spirits; I'll be gone:
Our queen and
all our 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 wrath,
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 starlight sheen,
But, they do
square, that all their elves for fear
Creep into
acorn-cups and hide them there.
FAIRY
Either I mistake your shape and making quite,
Or else you are
that shrewd and knavish sprite
Call'd Robin
Goodfellow: are not you he
That frights
the maidens of the villagery;
Skim milk, and
sometimes labour in the quern
And bootless
make the breathless housewife churn;
And sometime
make the drink to bear no barm;
Mislead
night-wanderers, laughing at their harm?
Those that
Hobgoblin call you and sweet Puck,
You do their
work, and they shall have good luck:
Are not you he?
PUCK
Thou speak'st 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 sometime
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
wither'd dewlap pour the ale.
The wisest
aunt, telling the saddest tale,
Sometime 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 laugh,
And waxen in
their mirth and neeze and swear
A merrier hour
was never wasted there.
No comments:
Post a Comment