How now, spirit! whither wander you? Over hill, over dale,Through bush, through brier,Over park, over pale,Through flood, through fire.
But they do square, that all their elves for fearCreep into acorn cups and hide them there. Either I mistake your shape and making quite,Or else you are that shrewd and knavish spriteCall’d Robin Goodfellow. Are not you heThat frights the maidens of the villagery,Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern, And bootless make the breathless housewife churn,Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm?Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck?
Philomel with melodyCome not near our Fairy Queen! Hence away; now all is well.One aloof stand sentinel.
Peaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed! Ready! And I.
Hail, mortal! Haill!
I cry your worships mercy, heartily; I beseech your worship’s name. Cobweb!
Where’s Madamoiselle Cobweb? Ready!