“At midnight the appointed hour, And for the Queen a fitting bow’r, (Quoth he) is that fair cowslip flow’r, On Hipcut-hill that groweth: In all your train there’s not a Fay, That ever went to gather May, But she hath made it in her way, The tallest there that groweth.” When by Tom Thum, a Fairy page, He sent it, and doth him engage, By promise of a mighty wage, It secretly to carry; Which done, the Queen her maids doth call, And bids them to be ready all, She would go see her summer hall, She could no longer tarry. Her chariot ready strait is made, Each thing therein is fitting laid, That she by nothing might be stay’d, For naught must be her letting: Four nimble gnats the horses were, Their harnesses of gossamere, Fly Cranion, her charioteer, Upon the coach-box getting. Her chariot of a snail’s fine shell, Which for the colours did excel; The fair Queen Mab becoming well, So lively was the limning: The seat the soft woll of the bee, The cover (gallantly to see) The wing of a py’d butterflee, I trow, was simple trimming. The wheels composed of crickets’ bones, And daintily made for the nonce, For fear of rattling on the stones, With thistle-down they shod it: For all her maidens much did fear, If Oberon had chanc’d to hear, That Mab his Queen should have been there, He would not have abode it. She mounts her chariot with a trice, Nor would she stay for no advice, Until her maids, that were so nice, To wait on her were fitted; But ran herself away alone; Which, when they heard, there was not one But hasted after to be gone, As she had been diswitted. Hop, and Mop, and Drop so clear, Pip, and Trip, and Skip, that were To Mab their sovereign dear, Her special maids of honour; Fib, and Tib, and Pinch, and Pin, Tick, and Quick, and Jill, and Jin, Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Win, The train that wait upon her. Upon a grasshopper they got, And what with amble and with trot, For hedge nor ditch they spared not, But after her they hie them. A cobweb over them they throw, To shield the wind if it should blow, Themselves they wisely could bestow, Lest any should espy them. But let us leave Queen Mab awhile, Through many a gate, o’er many a stile, That now had gotten by this wile, Her dear Pigwiggen kissing; And tell how Oberon doth fare, Who grew as mad as any hare, When he had sought each place with care, And found his Queen was missing. By grisly Pluto he doth swear, He rent his clothes, and tore his hair, And as he runneth here and there, An acorn cup he getteth; Which soon he taketh by the stalk, About his head he lets it walk, Nor doth he any creature baulk, But lays on all he meeteth.