MERCUTIO. O! then, I see Queene Mab hath beene with you.
BENVOLIO. Queene Mab? What’s she?
MERCUTIO. She is the Fairies Midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an Agat-stone
On the forefinger of an Alderman,
Drawne with a teame of little Atomies,
Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleepe;
Her Waggon Spokes made of long spinners’ legs;
The Cover, of the wings of Grasshoppers;
The Traces, of the smallest Spider’s web;
The Collars, of the Moonshine’s watery Beames;
Her Whip, of Cricket’s bone; the Lash, of filme,
Her Waggoner, a small grey-coated Gnat,
Not halfe as bigge as a round little Worme
Prick’d from the lazy finger of a Maid;
Her Chariot is an empty Hazel nut
Made by the joyner Squirrel or old Grub,
Time out o’ mind the Fairies’ Coach-makers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through Lovers’ braines, and then they dreame of love;
O’er Courtiers’ knees, that dreame on Court’sies straight;
O’er Lawyers’ fingers, who straight dreame on fees;
O’er Ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dreame;
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.
Sometimes she gallops o’er a Courtier’s nose,
And then dreames he of smelling out a suit;
And sometimes comes she with a Tithe-pig’s tail,
Tickling a Parson’s nose as ’a lies asleepe,
Then dreames he of another Benefice;
Sometimes she driveth o’er a Souldier’s necke,
And then dreames he of cutting Forraine throats,
Of Breaches, Ambuscadoes, Spanish Blades,
Of Healths five Fadome deepe; and then anon
Drums at his eare, at which he starts and wakes;
And, being thus frighted, sweares a prayer or two,
And sleepes againe. This is that very Mab
That plats the manes of Horses in the night,
And bakes the Elf-locks in foul sluttish haires
Which, once entangled, much misfortune bodes;
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them, and learns them first to beare,
Making them women of good carriage:
This she-
ROMEO. Peace, peace! Mercutio, peace!
Thou talk’st of nothing.
MERCUTIO. True, I talke of dreames:
Which are the children of an idle braine,
Begot of nothing but vaine phantasie;
Which is as thin of substance as the ayre,
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosome of the North,
And, being anger’d, puffes away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping South.
. . . . . . .
Now the hungrie lyon rores
And the wolfe behowls the moon;
Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with wearie task fore-done.
Now the wasted brands doe glow,
While the screech-owl, screeching loud,
Puts the wretch that lyes in woe
In remembrance of a shroud.
Now it is the time of night
That the graves, all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the church-way paths to glide:
And we Fairies, that doe runne
By the triple Hecate’s teame,
From the presence of the Sunne,
Following darknesse like a dreame,
Now are frollicke; not a Mouse
Shall disturb this hallowed house:
I am sent with broome before
To sweep the dust behinde the doore.
The faery beame upon you,
The starres to glister on you;
A Moone of light,
In the Noone of night,
Till the Fire Drake hath o’er gone you.
The Wheele of Fortune guide you,
The Boy with the Bow beside you,
Runne aye in the way,
Till the Bird of Day
And the luckyer lot betide you.