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NYMPHIDIA.
At length upon his feet he gets,Hobgoblin fumes, Hobgoblin frets,And as again he forward sets, And through the bushes scrambles,A stump doth trip him in his pace,Down comes poor Hob upon his face,And lamentably tore his case, Amongst the briers and brambles.
[A] plague upon queen Mab, quoth he,And all her maids, where'er they be;I think the devil guided me, To seek her, so provoked.When stumbling at a piece of wood,He fell into a ditch of mud,Where to the very chin he stood, In danger to be choked.
Now worse than e'er he was before,Poor Puck doth yell, poor Puck doth roar,That wak'd queen Mab, who doubted sore Some treason had been wrought her:Until Nymphidia told the queenWhat she had done, what she had seen,Who then had well-near crack'd her spleen With very extreme laughter.
