&plquo;Pro.
&plquo;Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
&plquo;And ye that on the sands with printless foot
&plquo;Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him
&plquo;When he comes back; you demy-puppets that
&plquo;By moon-shine do the green sour ringlets make,
&plquo;Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime
&plquo;Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
&plquo;To hear the solemn curfew, by whose aid
&plquo;(Weak masters tho' ye be) I have be-dimm'd
&plquo;The noon-tide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
&plquo;And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault
&plquo;Set roaring war; to the dread ratling thunder
&plquo;Have I giv'n fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak
&plquo;With his own bolt: the strong-bas'd promontory
&plquo;Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluckt up
&plquo;The pine and cedar: graves at my command
&plquo;Have wak'd their sleepers; op'd, and let 'em forth
&plquo;By my so potent art. But this rough magick
I here abjure; and when I have requir'd
Some heav'nly 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 fadoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book. [Solemn musick.

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