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NYMPHIDIA.
By the whirlwinds hollow sound,By the thunders dreadful stound,Yells of spirits under ground, I charge thee not to fear us:By the scritch-owls dismal note,By the black night-ravens throat,I charge thee, Hob, to tear thy coat With thorns, if thou come near us."
Her spell thus spoke, she stept aside,And in a chink herself doth hide,To see thereof what would betide, For she doth only mind him:When, presently, she Puck espies,And well she markt his gloating eyes,How under every leaf he pries, In seeking still to find them.
But once the circle got within,The charms to work do straight begin,And he was caught as in a gin: For as he thus was busy,A pain he in his head-piece feels,Against a stubbed tree he reels,And up went poor Hob-goblins heels: Alas! his brain was dizzy.
