A torch for me: let wantons light of heart
Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels,
For I am proverb'd
with a grandsire phrase;
I'll be a candle-holder, and look on.
The game was ne'er so fair, and I am done.
Tut, dun's the mouse, the constable's own word:
If thou art dun, we'll draw thee from the mire
Of this sir-
reverence love, wherein thou stick'st
Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho!
Nay, that's not so.
I mean, sir, in delay
We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
Take our good meaning, for our judgment
Five times in that ere once in our five wits.
And we mean well in going to this mask;
But 'tis no wit to go.
Why, may one ask?
I dream'd a dream to-night.
And so did I.
Well, what was yours?
That dreamers often lie.
In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.
O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes
In shape no
bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
men's noses as they lie asleep;
Her wagon-spokes made of long spiders' legs,
The cover of the wings of
The traces of the smallest spider's web,
The collars of the moonshine's watery beams,
whip of cricket's bone, the lash of film,
Her wagoner a small grey-coated gnat,
Not so big as a round little
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid;
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut
Made by the joiner squirrel
or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight,
Copyright: All texts on Bibliomania are © Bibliomania.com Ltd,
and may not be reproduced in any form without our written permission.
See our FAQ for more details.