“Save me, ye shapes of nought,” he bellowed, “no more, no more, for love’s sake.  I begin to see what men call red Beelzebub, and that’s an end to all true fellowship.  Whiffle your tufted bee’s wing, Signior Cobweb, I beseech you—­a little fiery devil with four eyes floats in my brain, and flame’s a frisky bedfellow.  Avaunt! avaunt ye!  Would now my true friend Bottom the weaver were at my side.  His was a courage to make princes great.  Prithee, Queen Tittany, no more such cozening possets!”

I drew Rosinante back into the leaves.

“Droop now thy honeyed lids, my dearest love!” I heard a clear voice answer.  “There’s nought can harm thee in these silvered woods:  no bird that pipes but love incites his throat, and never a dewdrop wells but whispers peace!”

“Ay, ay, ’tis very well, you have a gift, you have a gift, Tittany’s for twisting words to sugarsticks.  But la, there, what wots your trickling whey of that coal-piffling Prince of Flies!  I’m Bottom the weaver, I am.  He knows not his mother’s ring-finger that knows not Nick Bottom.  Back, back, ye jigging dreams!  ‘Tis Puckling nods.  Ha’ done, ha’ done—­there’s no sweet sanity in an asshead more if I quaff their elvish ...  Out now ...  Ha’ done, I say!”

Then indeed he slumbered truly, this engarlanded weaver, his lids concealing all bright speculation, his jowl of vanity (foe of the Philistine) at peace:  and I might gaze unperceived.  The moon filled his mossy cubicle with her untrembling beams, streamed upon blossoms sweet and heavy as Absalom’s hair, while tiny plumes wafted into the night the scent of thyme and meadow-sweet.

I know not how long they would have kept me prisoner with their illusive music.  I dared not move, scarce wink; for much as immortality may mollify hairiness, I had no wish to live too frank.

How, also, would this weaver who slumbered so cacophonously welcome a rival to his realms.  I say I sat still, like Echo in the woods when none is calling; like too, I grant, one who ached not a little after jolts and jars and the phantasmal mists of this engendering air.  But none stirred, nor went, nor came.  So resting my hands cautiously on a little witch’s guild of toadstools that squatted cold in shade, I lifted myself softly and stood alert.

And in a while out of that numerous company stepped one whom by his primrose face and mien I took to be Mounsieur Mustardseed, and I followed after him.

VI

    Care-charming Sleep ...
    ... sweetly thyself dispose
    On this afflicted prince!

    —­JOHN FLETCHER.

Away with a blink of his queer green eye over his shoulder he sauntered by a devious path out of the dell.  Forgetful of thorn and brier, trickery and wantonness, we clambered down after him, out of the moonlight, into a dark, clear alley, soundless and solitary amid these enchanted woods.