Puck.
How now spirit, whither wander you?

Fai.
Over hill, over dale,
Through bush, through briar,
Over park, over pale,
Through flood, through fire,
I do wander every where,
Swifter than the moon's sphere;
And I serve the Fairy Queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green;

The cowslips tall her pensioners be,
In their gold coats spots you see,
Those be rubies, Fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
Farewel thou lob of spirits, I'll be gone,
Our Queen and all her elves come here anon.

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 wrath,
Because that she, as her attendant, hath
A lovely boy stol'n 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 per-force with-holds the loved boy,
Crowns him with flow'rs, 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 † ^notesquare, that all their elves for fear
Creep into acorn cups, and hide them there.

Fai.
Or I mistake your shape and making quite,
Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite
Call'd Robin-goodfellow. Are you not he,
That fright the maidens of the villagree,
Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern,
And bootless make the breathless huswife churn;
And sometime make the drink to bear no barme,
Mis-lead night-wand'rers, laughing at their harm?
Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck,
You do their work, and they shall have good luck.

Are not you he?

Puck.
Thou speak'st aright;
I am that merry wand'rer 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 silly foal:
And sometimes lurk I in a gossip's bowl,
In very likeness of a roasted † ^notecrab,
And when she drinks, against her lips I bob,
And on her wither'd dewlap pour the ale.
The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,
Sometime 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.
But make room, fairy, here comes Oberon.

Fai.
And here my mistress: would that he were gone.

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