"Beshrew those sad interpreters of nature, Who gloze her lively universal law, As if she had not form'd our cheerful feature To be so tickled with the slightest straw! So let them vex their mumbling mouths, and draw The corners downward, like a wat'ry moon, And deal in gusty sighs and rainy flaw-- We will not woo foul weather all too soon, Or nurse November on the lap of June." XCIII. "For ours are winging sprites, like any bird, That shun all stagnant settlements of grief; And even in our rest our hearts are stirr'd, Like insects settled on a dancing leaf:-- This is our small philosophy in brief, Which thus to teach hath set me all agape: But dost thou relish it? O hoary chief! Unclasp thy crooked fingers from my nape, And I will show thee many a pleasant scrape." XCIV. Then Saturn thus:--shaking his crooked blade O'erhead, which made aloft a lightning flash In all the fairies' eyes, dismally fray'd! His ensuing voice came like the thunder crash-- Meanwhile the bolt shatters some pine or ash-- "Thou feeble, wanton, foolish, fickle thing! Whom nought can frighten, sadden, or abash,-- To hope my solemn countenance to wring To idiot smiles!--but I will prune thy wing!" XCV. "Lo! this most awful handle of my scythe Stood once a May-pole, with a flowery crown, Which rustics danced around, and maidens blithe, To wanton pipings;--but I pluck'd it down, And robed the May Queen in a churchyard gown, Turning her buds to rosemary and rue; And all their merry minstrelsy did drown, And laid each lusty leaper in the dew;-- So thou shalt fare--and every jovial crew!" XCVI. Here he lets go the struggling imp, to clutch. His mortal engine with each grisly hand, Which frights the elfin progeny so much, They huddle in a heap, and trembling stand All round Titania, like the queen bee's band, With sighs and tears and very shrieks of woe!-- Meanwhile, some moving argument I plann'd, To make the stern Shade merciful,--when lo! He drops his fatal scythe without a blow! XCVII. For, just at need, a timely Apparition Steps in between, to bear the awful brunt; Making him change his horrible position, To marvel at this comer, brave and blunt, That dares Time's irresistible affront, Whose strokes have scarr'd even the gods of old;-- Whereas this seem'd a mortal, at mere hunt For coneys, lighted by the moonshine cold, Or stalker of stray deer, stealthy and bold. XCVIII. Who, turning to the small assembled fays, Doffs to the lily queen his courteous cap, And holds her beauty for a while in gaze, With bright eyes kindling at this pleasant hap; And thence upon the fair moon's silver map, As if in question of this magic chance, Laid like a dream upon the green earth's lap; And then upon old Saturn turns askance, Exclaiming, with a glad and kindly glance:-- XCIX.