Pro.
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
And ye, that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune; and do fly him,
When he comes back; you demy-puppets, that
By moon-shine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid
(Weak masters tho' ye be6Q0006) I have be-dimm'd
The noon-tide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault
Set roaring war; to the dread ratling thunder
Have I giv'n fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt: the strong-bas'd promontory
Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluckt up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command
Have wak'd their sleepers; op'd, and let them forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magick
I here abjure; and when I have requir'd
Some heavenly musick, which ev'n now I do,
To work mine end upon their senses, that
This airy charm is for; I'll break my staff;
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth;

And, deeper than did ever plummet sound,
I'll drown my book. [Solemn musick.

Previous section

Next section