3 Fay.  You shall haue most daintie Instruments, Sir.

Mop.  I pray you, what might I call you?

1 Fay.  My name is Penny.

Mop.  I am sorry I cannot purse you.

Fris.  I pray you sir what might I call you?

2 Fay.  My name is Cricket.[117]

Fris.  I would I were a chimney for your sake.

Io.  I pray you, you prettie little fellow, whats your name?

3 Fay.  My name is little, little Pricke.

Io.  Little, little Pricke? o you are a daungerous Fayrie, and fright all little wenches in the country out of their beds.  I care not whose hand I were in, so I were out of yours.

1 Fay.  I do come about the coppes
         Leaping vpon flowers toppes;
         Then I get vpon a Flie,
         Shee carries me aboue the skie,
         And trip and goe.

2 Fay.  When a deaw drop falleth downe
         And doth light vpon my crowne,
         Then I shake my head and skip
         And about I trip.

3 Fay.  When I feele a girle a sleepe
         Vnderneath her frock I peepe. 
         There to sport, and there I play,
         Then I byte her like a flea;
         And about I skip.

Io.  I, I thought where I should haue you.

1 Fay.  Wilt please you daunce, sir.

Io.  Indeed, sir, I cannot handle my legges.

2 Fay.  O you must needs daunce and sing,
Which if you refuse to doe
We will pinch you blacke and blew;
And about we goe.

    They all daunce in a ring and sing, as followeth.

  Round about, round about, in a fine ring a,
  Thus we daunce, thus we daunce, and thus we sing a: 
  Trip and go, too and fro, ouer this Greene a,
  All about, in and out, for our braue Queene a.

  Round about, round about, in a fine Ring a,
  Thus we daunce, thus we daunce, and thus we sing a: 
  Trip and go, too and fro, ouer this Greene a,
  All about, in and out, for our braue Queene a.

  We haue daunc’t round about in a fine Ring a,
  We haue daunc’t lustily and thus we sing a;
  All about, in and out, ouer this Greene a,
  Too and fro, trip and go, to our braue Queene a.

Actus Tertius.

(SCENE I.)

    Enter Appollo and three Charites.

1 Cha.  No, No, great Phoebus; this your silence tends To hide your griefe from knowledge of your friends, Who, if they knew the cause in each respect, Would shewe their utmost skill to cure th’effect: 

Ap.  Good Ladyes, your conceites in iudgement erre: 
Because you see me dumpish, you referre
The reason to some secret griefe of mine: 
But you haue seene me melancholy many a time: 
Perhaps it is the glowing weather now
That makes me seeme so ill at ease to you.