  Ho, my bullies, lift a tune To Queen Mab, and, come, make merry, By a mushroom in the moon, White as bud of berry! Gentlemen, come! take your grog! Each one in his cap and mantlet: Who refuses is a dog!— He must lift my gantlet! Look! my gaberdine how brave! And my tunic, ouphen yellow! One a bat's-wing lately gave, And a frog its fellow. And a moth's-head grew this fine Feather of my beetle-bonnet; See, my gnat-sting dagger's shine Hath its blood still on it. Faith! this ring I wear, I swear, 'Twas Queen Mab who gave it: studded, As you see, with rubies rare— Eyes of spiders blooded. Doubt me, sirs, and by my blade!— Sirrahs, a good stabbing hanger! From a hornet's stinger made!— You may dread my anger! Fill the lichen pottles up, Honey pressed from hearts of roses: Cheek by jowl, up with each cup, Till we hide our noses. Good, sirs!—Marry!—'Twas the cock!— Hey, away! the moon's lost fire!— Ho! the cock! our dial and clock— Hide beneath this brier! |
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