_Ben_: Queene _Mab_ whats she? She is the Fairies Midwife and doth come In shape no bigger than an Aggat stone On the forefinger of a Burgomaster, Drawne with a teeme of little Atomi, 45 A thwart mens noses when they lie a sleepe. Her waggon spokes are made of spinners webs, The couer, of the winges of Grashoppers, The traces are the Moone-shine watrie beames, The collers crickets bones, the lash of filmes, 50 Her waggoner is a small gray coated flie, Not halfe so big as is a little worme, Pickt from the lasie finger of a maide, And in this sort she gallops vp and downe Through Louers braines, and then they dream of loue: 55 O're Courtiers knees: who strait on cursies dreame O're Ladies lips, who dreame on kisses strait: Which oft the angrie Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breathes with sweet meats tainted are: Sometimes she gallops ore a Lawers lap, 60 And then dreames he of smelling out a sute, And sometime comes she with a tithe pigs taile, Tickling a Parsons nose that lies a sleepe, And then dreames he of another benefice: Sometime she gallops ore a souldiers nose, 65 And then dreames he of cutting forraine throats, Of breaches ambuscados, countermines, Of healthes fiue fadome deepe, and then anon Drums in his eare: at which he startes and wakes, And sweares a Praier or two and sleepes againe. 70 This is that Mab that makes maids lie on their backes, And proues them women of good cariage. This is the verie Mab that plats the manes of Horses in the night, And plats the Elfelocks in foule sluttish haire, Which once vntangled much misfortune breedes. 75 _Rom_: Peace, peace, thou talkst of nothing. _Mer_: True I talke of dreames, Which are the Children of an idle braine, Begot of nothing but vaine fantasie, Which is as thinne a substance as the aire, 80 And more inconstant than the winde, Which wooes euen now the frose bowels of the north, And being angred puffes away in haste, Turning his face to the dew-dropping south. _Ben_: Come, come, this winde doth blow vs from ourselues. 85 Supper is done and we shall come too late. _Ro_: I feare too earlie, for my minde misgiues Some consequence is hanging in the stars, Which bitterly begins his fearefull date With this nights reuels, and expiers the terme 90 Of a dispised life, closde in this breast, By some vntimelie forfet of vile death: But he that hath the steerage of my course Directs my saile, on lustie Gentlemen. [Sidenote: [SC. V.]] _Enter old_ Capulet _with the ladies_.