_Puck._ The king doth keep his revels here to-night. Take heed the queen come not within his sight; For Oberon is passing fell and wroth, Because that she, as her attendant, hath A lovely boy stolen from an Indian king,-- She never had so sweet a changeling; And jealous Oberon would have the child Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild; But she, perforce, withholds the loved boy, Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy And now they never meet in grove or green, By fountain clear, or spangled star-light sheen, But they do square; that all their elves, for fear, Creep into acorn cups, and hide them there. _Fai._ Either I mistake your shape and making quite, Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite Call'd Robin Good-fellow. Are you not he _That frights the maidens of the villagery, Skims milk, and sometimes labours in the quern, And bootless makes the breathless housewife churn; And sometimes makes the drink to bear no barm; Misleads night-wanderers, laughing at their harm? Those that Hob-goblin call you, and sweet Puck, You do their work, and they shall have good luck_, Are not you he? _Puck._ Thou speakest aright, I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon, and make him smile, _When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, Neighing in likeness of a filly-foal_; And sometimes lurk I in a gossip's bowl, In very likeness of a roasted crab, And when she drinks, against her lips I bob, And on her withered dewlap pour the ale. The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, Sometimes for three-foot stool mistaketh me: Then slip I from her bum,--down topples she, And _tailor_ cries, and falls into a cough; And then the whole quire hold their hips and loffe, And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear A merrier hour was never wasted there. The haunts of the Fairies on earth are the most rural and romantic that can be selected. They meet On hill, in dale, forest or mead, By paved fountain, or by rushy brook, Or on the beached margent of the sea, To dance their ringlets to the whistling wind. And the place of Titania's repose is A bank whereon the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine. There sleeps Titania, some time of the night Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight; And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin, Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in. The powers of the poet are exerted to the utmost, to convey an idea of their minute dimensions; and time, with them, moves on lazy pinions. "Come," cries the queen,