some recovery note; What was his club he made his boat, And in his oaken cup doth float, As safe as in a wherry.

Men talk of the adventures strange Of Don Quixoit, and of their change Through which he arméd oft did range, Of Sancho Pancha’s travel; But should a man tell every thing Done by this frantic Fairy King, And them in lofty numbers sing, It well his wits might gravel.

Scarce set on shore, but therewithal He meeteth Puck, which most men call Hobgoblin, and on him doth fall, With words from frenzy spoken: “Oh, oh,” quoth Hob, “God save thy grace! Who drest thee in this piteous case? He thus that spoiled my sovereign’s face, I would his neck were broken!”

This Puck seems but a dreaming dolt, Still walking like a ragged colt, And oft out of a bush doth bolt, Of purpose to deceive us; And leading us makes us to stray, Long winter’s nights, out of the way; And when we stick in mire and clay, Hob doth with laughter leave us.

“Dear Puck,” quoth he, “my wife is gone: As e’er thou lov’st King Oberon, Let everything but this alone, With vengeance and pursue her; Bring her to me alive or dead, Or that vile thief, Pigwiggin’s head, That villain hath [my Queen misled]; He to this folly drew her.”

Quoth Puck, “My liege, I’ll never lin, But I will thorough thick and thin, Until at length I bring her in; My dearest lord, ne’er doubt it.” Thorough brake, thorough briar, Thorough muck, thorough mire, Thorough water, thorough fire; And thus goes Puck about it.

This thing Nymphidia overheard, That on this mad king had a guard, Not doubting of a great reward, For first this business broaching; And through the air away doth go, Swift as an arrow from the bow, To let her sovereign Mab to know What peril was approaching.

The Queen, bound with Love’s powerful charm, Sate with Pigwiggin arm in arm; Her merry maids, that thought no harm, About the room were skipping; A humble-bee, their minstrel, played Upon his hautboy, every maid Fit for this revel was arrayed, The hornpipe neatly tripping.

In comes Nymphidia, and doth cry, “My sovereign, for your safety fly, For there is danger but too nigh; I posted to forewarn you: The King hath sent Hobgoblin out, To seek you all the fields about, And of your safety you may doubt, If he but once discern you.”

When, like an uproar in a town, Before them everything went down; Some tore a ruff, 

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