Dor. The other halfe let Mopsus take.
Joc. And Thestylis a joynture make.
Bro. Why, master, are you mad?
Joc. Your mistresse, sirrah.
Our Grace has said it, and it shall be so.
Bro. What, will you give away all your estate? Joc. We have enough beside in Fairy Land. You, Thestylis, shall be our maid of honour.
Thes. I humbly thank your Grace.
Joc. Come, princely Oberon, I long to tast this Moly. Pray bestow the Knighthood of the Mellisonant Tingle Tangle upon our brother Mopsus; we will raise all of our house to honours.
Joc. I alwayes thought I was borne to be a queene. Dor. Come let us walke, majestique queene,
Of fairy mortalls to be seen.
In chaires of pearle thou plac't shalt be,
And empresses shall envie thee,
When they behold upon our throne
Jocasta with her Dorylas.
All. Ha, ha, ha!
Joc. Am I deceiv'd and cheated, guld and foold? Mop. Alas, sir, you were borne to be a queene. Joc. My lands, my livings, and my orchard gone? Dor. Your grace hath said it, and it must be so. Bro. You have enough beside in Fairy-land.
Thes. What would your Grace command your maid of honour?
Dor. Well, I restore your lands only the orchard I will reserve for feare queen Mab should long.
Mop. Part I'le restore unto my liberall sister in liew of my great knighthood.
Joc. I am beholding to your liberality.
Bro. I'le something give as well as doe the rest; Take my fooles coat, for you deserve it best.
Joc. I shall grow wiser.
Dor. Oberon will be glad on't.
Thes. I must goe call Urania that she may come vow virginity.
ROM the "Hesperides, or the Works both humane and
these pieces are very common in contemporary manuscripts, and are also inserted in a few printed collections.
A little mushroome table spred,
After short prayers they set on bread,
A moon-parcht grain of purest wheat,
With some small glit'ring gritt, to eate
His choice bitts with; then in a trice
They make a feast lesse great then nice,
But all this while his eye is serv'd,
We must not thinke his eare was sterv'd;
But that there was in place to stir
His spleen, the chirring grashopper,
The merry cricket, puling flie,
The piping gnat for minstralcy.1
1 The following two lines are here inserted in a copy in Poole's
And now, we must imagine first,
The elves present to quench his thirst,
A pure seed-pearle of infant dew,
Brought and besweetned in a blew
And pregnant violet; which done,
His kitling eyes begin to runne
Quite through the table, where he spies
The hornes of paperie butterflies,
Of which he eates; and tastes a little
Of what we call the cuckoes spittle;
A little fuz-ball pudding stands
By, yet not blessed by his hands,
That was too coorse; but then forthwith
He ventures boldly on the pith
Of sugred rush, and eates the sagge
And well bestrutted bees sweet bagge;
Gladding his pallat with some store
Of emits eggs; what wo'd he more?
But beards of mice, a newt's stew'd thigh,
A bloated earewig, and a flie;
With the red-capt worme, that's shut
With the concave of a nut,
Browne as his tooth. A little moth,
Late fatned in a piece of cloth;
With withered cherries, mandrakes eares,
Moles eyes; to these the slain stag's teares;
The unctuous dewlaps of a snaile,
The broke-heart of a nightingale
Ore-come in musicke; with a wine
Ne're ravisht from the flattering vine,
But gently prest from the soft side
Of the most sweet and dainty bride,
Parnassus, which contains many variations, generally for the
The humming dor, the dying swan,
And each a chief musician.
Brought in a dainty daizie, which
He fully quaffs up to bewitch
His blood to height; this done, commended Grace by his priest; the feast is ended!
Full as a bee with thyme, and red
As cherry harvest, now high fed
For lust and action; on he'l go
To lye with Mab, though all say no.
Lust has no eares; he's sharpe as thorn,
And fretfull, carries hay in's horne,
And lightning in his eyes; and flings
Among the elves, if mov'd, the stings
Of peltish wasps; we'l know his guard;
Kings, though th'are hated, will be fear'd.
Wine lead[s] him on.
Thus to a grove,
Sometimes devoted unto love,
Tinseld with twilight, he and they
Lead by the shine of snails, a way
Beat with their num'rous feet, which by
Many a neat perplexity,
Many a turn and man' a crosse
Track, they redeem a bank of mosse
Spungie and swelling, and farre more
Soft then the finest Lemster ore;
Mildly disparkling, like those fiers
Which break from the injeweld 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 wilde digestion brought,
As if loves sampler here was wrought,
Or Citherea's ceston, which
All with temptation doth bewitch.
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