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Now whilst he gazed, a gallant, drest
"What mortal of a wretched mind,
At this the swain, whose venturous soul No fears of magic art control,
Advanced in open sight;
"Nor have I cause of dread," he said, "Who view, by no presumption led, Your revels of the night;
"'Twas grief for scorn of faithful love, Which made my steps unweeting rove Amid the nightly dew."
""Tis well," the gallant cries again, "We fairies never injure men
Who dare to tell us true.
"Exalt thy love-dejected heart; Be mine the task, or ere we part, To make thee grief resign;
Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce; Whilst I with Mab, my partner, daunce, Be little Mabel thine."
He spoke, and all a sudden there
The monarch leads the queen :
The dauncing past, the board was laid,
But now, to please the fairy king,
Some wind and tumble like an ape,
Till one at last, that Robin hight,
Has hent him up aloof;
And full against the beam he flung,
From thence, "Reverse my charm," he cries, "And let it fairly now suffice,
The gambol has been shewn." But Oberon answers with a smile, "Content thee, Edwin, for a while, The vantage is thine own."
Here ended all the phantom-play;
And heard a cock to crow;
The whirling wind that bore the crowd
Then, screaming, all at once they fly,
Poor Edwin falls to floor;
Forlorn his state, and dark the place;
But soon as Dan Apollo rose,
With lusty livelyhed he talks,
The story told Sir Topaz moved,
At close of eve he leaves his home,
As there he bides, it so befel,
The wind came rustling down a dell,
A shaking seized the wall; Up spring the tapers as before, The fairies bragly foot the floor,
And music fills the hall.
But, certes, sorely sunk with woe,
When Oberon cries, "A man is near,
A mortal passion, cleped fear,
With that Sir Topaz, hapless youth!
"Ah! losel vile," at once they roar; "And little skill'd of fairy lore, Thy cause to come we know: Now has thy kestrel courage fell; And fairies, since a lie you tell, Are free to work thee woe."
Then Will, who bears the wispy fire
The revel now proceeds apace,
By this the stars began to wink,
They shriek, they fly, the tapers silk,
With strong enchantment bound a glade
Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay,
But wot ye well his harder lot?
This tale a Sibyl-nurse ared;
She softly stroked my youngling head,
And when the tale was done, "Thus some are born, my son," she cries, "With base impediments to rise,
And some are born with none.
"But virtue can itself advance