These passages will serve to give a fair and not unfavourable impression of the style, but I have reserved for separate consideration what I consider to be the most striking portions of the play.  The first of these is the string of Latin songs in which the would-be elves comment on their nefarious proceedings in Jocastus’ orchard.  I quote certain stanzas only: 

    Nos beata Fauni Proles,
    Quibus non est magna moles,
    Quamvis Lunam incolamus,
    Hortos saepe frequentamus.

Furto cuncta magis bella,
Furto dulcior Puella,
Furto omnia decora,
Furto poma dulciora.

Cum mortales lecto jacent,
Nobis poma noctu placent;
Illa tamen sunt ingrata,
Nisi furto sint parata.

* * * * *

Oberon, descende citus,
Ne cogaris hinc invitus;
Canes audio latrantes,
Et mortales vigilantes.

* * * * *

I domum, Oberon, ad illas
Quae nos manent nunc ancillas,
Quarum osculemur sinum,
Inter poma, lac et vinum. (III. iv.)

To discuss verses such as these seriously is impossible.  The dog-Latin of the fellow of Trinity is inimitable, while there is a peculiarly roguish delicacy about his humour.  In the admirable ease with which the words are adapted to the sense, the songs are unsurpassed except by the very best of the carmina vagorum.  Lastly, as undoubtedly the finest passage of the play, and as one that must give us pause when we would deny to ’prince Randolph’ the gifts requisite for the higher imaginative drama, I must quote the scene in which the distracted Amyntas fancies that in his endless search for the ‘impossible dowry’ he has arrived on the shores of Styx and boarded Charon’s bark.

    Amyntas. Row me to hell!—­no faster?  I will have thee
    Chain’d unto Pluto’s gallies!

    Urania. Why to hell,
    My deere Amyntas?

    Amyntas. Why? to borrow mony!

    Amarillis. Borrow there?

Amy. I, there! they say there be more Usurers there Then all the world besides.—­See how the windes Rise!  Puffe, puffe Boreas.—­What a cloud comes yonder!  Take heed of that wave, Charon! ha? give mee The oares!—­So, so:  the boat is overthrown; Now Charons drown’d, but I will swim to shore....  My armes are weary;—­now I sinke, I sinke!  Farewell Urania ...  Styx, I thank thee!  That curld wave Hath tos’d mee on the shore.—­Come Sysiphus, I’ll rowle thy stone a while:  mee thinkes this labour Doth looke like Love! does it not so, Tysiphone?

    Ama. Mine is that restlesse toile.

    Amy. Is’t so, Erynnis? 
    You are an idle huswife, goe and spin
    At poore Ixions wheele!