NYMPHIDIA.
91
The walls of spiders legs are made,Well morticed and finely laid;He was the master of his trade It curiously that builded:The windows of the eyes of cats,And for the roof, instead of slates,Is cover'd with the skins of bats, With moonshine that are gilded.
Hence Oberon, him sport to make,(Their rest when weary mortals take,And none but only fairies wake) Descendeth for his pleasure:And Mab, his merry queen, by nightBestrides young folks that lie upright,(In elder times the mare that hight) Which plagues them out of measure.
Hence shadows, seeming idle shapesOf little frisking elves and apes,To earth do make their wanton scapes, As hope of pastime hastes them:Which maids think on the hearth they see,When fires well-near consumed be,There dancing hayes by two and three, Just as their fancy casts them.
