Merry.

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.

 But, room, fairy! here comes Oberon ...

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