O quoth the _Gloworme_ hold thy hand, Thou puisant King of _Fayrie_ land, Thy mighty stroaks who may withstand, Hould, or of life despaire I: Together then her selfe doth roule, And tumbling downe into a hole, 230 She seem'd as black as any Cole, Which vext away the _Fayrie_. From thence he ran into a Hiue, Amongst the Bees he letteth driue And downe their Coombes begins to riue, All likely to haue spoyled: Which with their Waxe his face besmeard, And with their Honey daub'd his Beard It would haue made a man afeard, To see how he was moyled. 240 A new Aduenture him betides, He mett an Ant, which he bestrides, And post thereon away he rides, Which with his haste doth stumble; And came full ouer on her snowte, Her heels so threw the dirt about, For she by no meanes could get out, But ouer him doth tumble. And being in this piteous case, And all be-slurried head and face, 250 On runs he in this Wild-goose chase As here, and there, he rambles Halfe blinde, against a molehill hit, And for a Mountaine taking it, For all he was out of his wit, Yet to the top he scrambles. And being gotten to the top, Yet there himselfe he could not stop, But downe on th' other side doth chop, And to the foot came rumbling: 260 So that the Grubs therein that bred, Hearing such turmoyle ouer head, Thought surely they had all bin dead, So fearefull was the Iumbling. And falling downe into a Lake, Which him vp to the neck doth take, His fury somewhat it doth slake, He calleth for a Ferry; Where you may some recouery note, What was his Club he made his Boate, 270 And in his Oaken Cup doth float, As safe as in a Wherry. Men talke of the Aduentures strange, Of _Don Quishott_, and of their change Through which he Armed oft did range, Of _Sancha Panchas_ trauell: But should a man tell euery thing, Done by this franticke _Fayrie_ king. And them in lofty numbers sing It well his wits might grauell. 280 Scarse set on shore, but therewithall, He meeteth _Pucke_, which most men call _Hobgoblin_, and on him doth fall, With words from frenzy spoken; Hoh, hoh, quoth _Hob_, God saue thy grace, Who drest thee in this pitteous case, He thus that spoild my soueraignes face, I would his necke were broken.