NYMPHIDIA.
101
Scarce set on shore, but therewithalHe meeteth Puck, which most men callHob-goblin, and on him doth fall With words from frenzy spoken:Hoh, hoh, quoth Hob, god save thy graceWho dress'd thee in this piteous case?He thus that spoil'd my sov'reigns 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 winters nights out of the way,And, when we stick in mire and clay, He doth with laughter leave us.
Dear Puck, quoth he, my wife is gone,As 'e'er' thou lov'st king Oberon,Let every thing but this alone, With vengeance and pursue her:Bring her to me, alive or dead;Or that vile thief Pigwiggens head;That villain hath defil'd my bed, He to this folly drew her.
