When the monthly horned queene Grew jealous that the starrs had seene Her rising from Endymion’s arms, In rage she threw her misty charmes Into the bosome of the night, To dimme theire curious pryeing sight; Then did the dwarfish Faery elves, Having first attyr’d themselves, Prepare to dresse their Oberon King In light robes fitt for revelling: With a cobweb shirt more thinne, Than ever spider since could spin, Bleacht to the whiteness of the snow, By the stormie windes that blow In the vast and frozen ayre No shirt half so fine, so fayre. A rich wastcoat they did bring, Made of the trout-flies gilded wing: At which his elveship gan to fret, Swearing it would make him sweat Even with its weight: he needs would weare A wastcoat wrought of downy haire, New shaven from an eunuck’s chin, That pleas’d him well, ’twas wondrous thin; The outside of his doublet was Made of the foure-leav’d, true lov’d, grasse Chang’d into so fine a glosse, With the oyle of crispie mosse, It made a rainbow in the night, Which gave a lustre passing light: On every seame there was a lace Drawne by the unctious snail’s slow pace To which the fin’st, pur’st silver thread Compar’d, did looke like dull pale lead. Each button was a sparkling eye Tane from the speckled adder’s frye; And for coollness next the skin, ’Twas wᵗʰ white poppey linde wᵗʰin. His breeches of the fleece was wrought, Which from Cholchos Jason brought; Spun into so fine a yarne, “No mortal wight might it discerne,” Weaved by Arachne on her loome, Just before she had her doome. A rich mantle he did weare, Made of tinsell gosameare; Beflowered over with a few Diamond stars of morning dew; Dyed crimson in a mayden’s blush; Lin’d with humble-bee’s soft plush. His cap was all of ladies’ love, So wondrous light that it would move, If any humming gnat or flie Buzz’d the air in passing by. About his necke a wreath of pearle Dropt from the eyes of some poore girle, Pinched, because she had forgot To leave clean water in the pot. And for’s feather he did weare, Old Nisus’ fatall purple haire, The sword ygirded to his thigh Was smallest blade of finest rye; A payre of buskins they did bringe Of yᵉ cowladye’s corrall winge, Powdred o’er with spots of jett, And lin’d wᵗʰ purple violett. His belt was made of myrtle leaues, Pleyted in small curious threavs, Besett wᵗʰ amber cowslip’s studs, And fringed about with daysey buds, In wᶜʰ his bugle home was hunge, Made of the babling Ecchoe’s tongue, Wᶜʰ Sett vnto his moone-burnt lip He winds, and then his Faeryes skipp; At that the lazy drone ’gan sound, And each did trip a fayrey round. SIR SIMEON STEWARD. QUEEN MAB. This is Mab, the mistress Fairy, That doth nightly rob the dairy, And can help or hurt the cherning, As she please without discerning.