From hag-bred Merlin’s time have I Thus nightly revell’d to and fro, And for my pranks men call me by The name of Robin Good-fellow. Fiends, ghosts, and sprites Who haunt the nightes, The hags and goblins do me know, And beldames old My feats have told, So _vale, vale_; ho, ho, ho! OLD POEM. PUCK’S SONG. Over hill, over dale, Through bush, through brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moone’s sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew the 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. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. THE FAIR TEMPLE; OR, OBERON’S CHAPEL. A way enchased with glass and beads There is, that to the chapel leads, Whose structure, for his holy rest, Is here the Halcyon’s curious nest: Into the which who looks, shall see His temple of idolatry, Where he of godheads has such store, As Rome’s Pantheon had not more. His house of Rimmon this he calls, Girt with small bones, instead of walls. First, in a niche, more black than jet, His idol-cricket there is set; Then in a polished oval by, There stands his idol-beetle-fly: Next, in an arch, akin to this, His idol-canker seated is: Then in a round, is placed by these His golden god, Cantharides. So that where’er ye look, ye see No capital, no cornice free, Or frieze, from this fine frippery. Now, this the fairies would have known, Theirs is a mixed religion: And some have heard the elves it call Part Pagan, part Papisticall. If unto me all tongues were granted, I could not speak the saints here painted. Saint Tit, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis, Who ’gainst Mab’s state placed here right is. Saint Will-o’-th’-Wisp, of no great bigness, But alias called here _fatuus ignis_. Saint Frip, Saint Trip, Saint Fill, Saint Fillie, Neither those other saintships will I Here go about for to recite Their number, almost infinite, Which, one by one, here set down are In this most curious calendar. First, at the entrance of the gate, A little puppet-priest doth wait, Who squeaks to all the comers there, “Favour your tongues, who enter here, Pure hands bring hither, without stain.” A second pules, “Hence, hence, profane.” Hard by, i’ th’ shell of half a nut, The holy water there is put; A little brush of squirrels’ hairs, Composed of odd, not even pairs, Stands in the platter or close by To purge the fairy family. Near to the altar stands the priest, There off’ring up the Holy Grist; Ducking in mood and perfect tense,