Oberon's Palace.

After the feast, my Shapcot, see     The fairy court I give to thee;     Where we'll present our Oberon, led     Half-tipsy to the fairy bed,     Where Mab he finds, who there doth lie,     Not without mickle majesty.     Which done, and thence remov'd the light,     We'll wish both them and thee good-night.     Full as a bee with thyme, and red     As cherry harvest, now high fed     For lust and action, on he'll go     To lie with Mab, though all say no.     Lust has no ears; he's sharp as thorn,     And fretful, carries hay in's horn,     And lightning in his eyes; and flings     Among the elves, if moved, the stings     Of peltish wasps; well know his guard -     Kings, though they're hated, will be fear'd.     Wine lead[s] him on. Thus to a grove,     Sometimes devoted unto love,     Tinselled with twilight, he and they,     Led by the shine of snails, a way     Beat with their num'rous feet, which, by     Many a neat perplexity,     Many a turn and many a cross-     Track they redeem a bank of moss,     Spongy and swelling, and far more     Soft than the finest Lemster ore,     Mildly disparkling like those fires     Which break from the enjewell'd tyres     Of curious brides; or like those mites     Of candi'd dew in moony nights.     Upon this convex all the flowers     Nature begets by th' sun and showers,     Are to a wild digestion brought,     As if love's sampler here was wrought:     Or Citherea's ceston, which     All with temptation doth bewitch.     Sweet airs move here, and more divine     Made by the breath of great-eyed kine,     Who, as they low, impearl with milk     The four-leaved grass or moss like silk.     The breath of monkeys met to mix     With musk-flies are th' aromatics     Which 'cense this arch; and here and there     And farther off, and everywhere     Throughout that brave mosaic yard,     Those picks or diamonds in the card     With peeps of hearts, of club, and spade     Are here most neatly inter-laid     Many a counter, many a die,     Half-rotten and without an eye     Lies hereabouts; and, for to pave     The excellency of this cave,     Squirrels' and children's teeth late shed     Are neatly here enchequered     With brownest toadstones, and the gum     That shines upon the bluer plum.     The nails fallen off by whitflaws: art's     Wise hand enchasing here those warts     Which we to others, from ourselves,     Sell, and brought hither by the elves.     The tempting mole, stolen from the neck     Of the shy virgin, seems to deck     The holy entrance, where within     The room is hung with the blue skin     Of shifted snake: enfriez'd throughout     With eyes of peacocks' trains and trout-     Flies' curious wings; and these among     Those silver pence that cut the tongue     Of the red infant, neatly hung.     The glow-worm's eyes; the shining scales     Of silv'ry fish; wheat straws, the snail's     Soft candle light; the kitling's eyne;     Corrupted wood; serve here for shine.     No glaring light of bold-fac'd day,     Or other over-radiant ray,     Ransacks this room; but what weak beams     Can make reflected from these gems     And multiply; such is the light,     But ever doubtful day or night.     By this quaint taper light he winds     His errors up; and now he finds     His moon-tann'd Mab, as somewhat sick,     And (love knows) tender as a chick.     Upon six plump dandillions, high-     Rear'd, lies her elvish majesty:     Whose woolly bubbles seem'd to drown     Her Mabship in obedient down.     For either sheet was spread the caul     That doth the infant's face enthral,     When it is born (by some enstyl'd     The lucky omen of the child),     And next to these two blankets o'er-     Cast of the finest gossamore.     And then a rug of carded wool,     Which, sponge-like drinking in the dull     Light of the moon, seemed to comply,     Cloud-like, the dainty deity.     Thus soft she lies: and overhead     A spinner's circle is bespread     With cob-web curtains, from the roof     So neatly sunk as that no proof     Of any tackling can declare     What gives it hanging in the air.     The fringe about this are those threads     Broke at the loss of maidenheads:     And, all behung with these, pure pearls,     Dropp'd from the eyes of ravish'd girls     Or writhing brides; when (panting) they     Give unto love the straiter way.     For music now, he has the cries     Of feigned-lost virginities;     The which the elves make to excite     A more unconquered appetite.     The king's undrest; and now upon     The gnat's watchword the elves are gone.     And now the bed, and Mab possess'd     Of this great little kingly guest;     We'll nobly think, what's to be done,     He'll do no doubt; this flax is spun.