OBERON.
A mortal?
PUCK.
A mortal? Who could be so madly rash?
Give me command, and I will punish him—
I'll fetch the Ignis-fatuus from the marsh,
And sting him with its blue unholy flame.
I'll search the wood, and sharpest thistles stick
Under his clothes, to vex his flesh profane:
I'll make his bold cheek tingle red with shame,
For daring on our mystic rites to gaze.
TITANIA.
Stay!——look! oh look!—it is a lovely Boy;
How peacefully he sleeps, while on his face
The moonbeams play—sure some enchanting dream,
All full of sunshine, holds him captive now,
For see, he smiles—how softly! Oberon,
