Full as a bee with thyme, and red As cherry harvest, now high fed For lust and action! on he’ll go To lie with Mab, though all say no. Lust has no ears; he’s sharp as thorn, And fretful, carries hay in ’s horn, And light’ning in his eyes; and flings Among the elves, if mov’d, the stings Of pettish wasps; well know his guard, Kings, though they’re hated, will be feared. Wine led him on. Thus to a grove, Sometimes devoted unto love, Tinselled with twilight, he and they Led by the shine of snails, a way Beat with their num’rous feet, which by Many a neat perplexity, Many a turn, and many a cross- Track, they redeem a bank of moss Spongy and swelling, and far more Soft then the finest Lemster ore: Mildly disparkling, like those fires Which break from the enjewelled tyres Of curious brides; or like those mites Of candied dew in moony nights. Upon this convex, all the flowers Nature begets by th’ sun and showers, Are to a wild digestion brought, As if Love’s sampler here was wrought; Or Citherea’s ceston, which All with temptation doth bewitch. Sweet airs move here, and more divine Made by the breath of great-eyed kine, Who, as they low, empearl with milk The fern-leav’d grass, or moss like silk. The breath of monkeys met to mix With musk-flies, are th’ aromatics Which cense this arch; and here and there, And farther off, and everywhere Throughout that brave mosaic yard, Those picks or diamonds in the card, With pips of hearts, of club and spade, Are here most neatly interlaid. Many a counter, many a die, Half rotten and without an eye, Lies hereabouts; and for to pave The excellency of this cave, Squirrels’ and children’s teeth late shed, Are neatly here enchequerèd, With brownest toadstones, and the gum That shines upon the bluer plum. The nails fall’n off by whit-flows: Art’s Wise hand enchasing here those warts Which we to others (from ourselves) Sell, and brought hither by the elves. The tempting mole, stol’n from the neck Of the shy virgin, seems to deck The holy entrance; where within, The room is hung with the blue skin Of shifted snake; enfriezed throughout With eyes of peacocks’ trains, and trout- Flies’ curious wings; and these among Those silver-pence, that cut the tongue Of the red infant, neatly hung. The glow-worm’s eyes, the shining scales Of silv’ry fish, wheat-straws, the snail’s Soft candle-light, the kitling’s eyne, Corrupted wood, serve here for shine. No glaring light of bold-faced day, Or other over-radiant ray, Ransacks this room; but what weak beams Can make reflected from these gems, And multiply; such is the light, But ever doubtful, day or night. By this quaint taper-light, he winds His errors up; and now he finds His moon-tanned Mab, as somewhat sick, And, love knows, tender as a chick. Upon six plump dandélions, high- Reared, lies her elvish majesty,