Be kind and courteous to this gentleman. 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; Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies. The sounds of the lute and of the trumpet are not more distinct than the poetry of the foregoing passage, and of the conversation between Theseus and Hippolita: Theseus. Go, one of you, find out the forester, For now our observation is perform'd; And since we have the vaward of the day, My love shall hear the music of my hounds. Uncouple in the western valley, go, Dispatch, I say, and find the forester. We will, fair Queen, up to the mountain's top, And mark the musical confusion Of hounds and echo in conjunction. Hippolita. I was with Hercules and Cadmus once, When in a wood of Crete they bay'd the bear With hounds of Sparta; never did I hear Such gallant chiding. For besides the groves, The skies, the fountains, every region near Seena'd all one mutual cry. I never heard So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. Theseus. My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, So flew'd, so sanded, and their heads are hung With ears that sweep away the morning dew; Crook-knee'd and dew-lap'd, like Thessalian bulls, Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells, Each under each. A cry more tuneable Was never halloo'd to, nor cheer'd with hom, In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly: Judge when you hear. Even Titian never made a hunting-piece of a gusto so fresh and lusty, and so near the first ages of the world as this.