When in a second Course againe, They forward came with might and mayne, Yet which had better of the twaine, The Seconds could not iudge yet; 620 Their shields were into pieces cleft, Their helmets from their heads were reft, And to defend them nothing left, These Champions would not budge yet. Away from them their Staues they threw, Their cruell Swords they quickly drew, And freshly they the fight renew; They euery stroke redoubled: Which made _Proserpina_ take heed, And make to them the greater speed, 630 For fear lest they too much should bleed, Which wondrously her troubled. When to th' infernall _Stix_ she goes, She takes the Fogs from thence that rose, And in a Bagge doth them enclose; When well she had them blended: She hyes her then to _Lethe_ spring, A Bottell and thereof doth bring, Wherewith she meant to worke the thing, Which onely she intended. 640 Now _Proserpine_ with _Mab_ is gone Vnto the place where _Oberon_ And proud _Pigwiggen_, one to one, Both to be slaine were likely: And there themselues they closely hide, Because they would not be espide; For _Proserpine_ meant to decide The matter very quickly. And suddainly vntyes the Poke, Which out of it sent such a smoke, 650 As ready was them all to choke, So greeuous was the pother; So that the Knights each other lost, And stood as still as any post, _Tom Thum_, nor _Tomalin_ could boast Themselues of any other. But when the mist gan somewhat cease, _Proserpina_ commanded peace: And that a while they should release, Each other of their perill: 660 Which here (quoth she) I doe proclaime To all in dreadfull _Plutos_ name, That as yee will eschewe his blame, You let me heare the quarrell, But here your selues you must engage, Somewhat to coole your spleenish rage: Your greeuous thirst and to asswage, That first you drinke this liquor: Which shall your vnderstanding cleare, As plainely shall to you appeare; 670 Those things from me that you shall heare, Conceiuing much the quicker. This _Lethe_ water you must knowe, The memory destroyeth so, That of our weale, or of our woe, It all remembrance blotted; Of it nor can you euer thinke: For they no sooner tooke this drinke, But nought into their braines could sinke, Of what had them besotted. 680