NYMPHIDIA.
95
Her chariot of a snails fine shell,Which for the colours did excell;The fair queen Mab becoming well, So lively was the limning:The seat the soft wool of the bee,The cover (gallantly to see)The wing of a py'd butterflee I trow, 'twas simple trimming.
The wheels compos'd of crickets bones,And daintily made for the nonce;For fear of rattling on the stones, With thistle-down they shod it:For all her maidens much did fear,If Oberon had chanc'd to hear,That Mab his queen should have been there, He would not have abode it.
She mounts her chariot 'in' a trice,Nor would she stay, for no advice,Until her maids, that were so nice, To wait on her were fitted,But ran herself away alone;Which when they heard, there was not one,But hasted after to be gone, As she had been diswitted.
