Vpon a Grashopper they got,
    And what with Amble, and with Trot, 170
    For hedge nor ditch they spared not,
      But after her they hie them. 
    A Cobweb ouer them they throw,
    To shield the winde if it should blowe,
    Themselues they wisely could bestowe,
      Lest any should espie them.

    But let vs leaue Queene Mab a while,
    Through many a gate, o’r many a stile,
    That now had gotten by this wile,
      Her deare Pigwiggin kissing, 180
    And tell how Oberon doth fare,
    Who grew as mad as any Hare,
    When he had sought each place with care,
      And found his Queene was missing.

    By grisly Pluto he doth sweare,
    He rent his cloths, and tore his haire,
    And as he runneth, here and there,
      An Acorne cup he greeteth;
    Which soone he taketh by the stalke
    About his head he lets it walke, 190
    Nor doth he any creature balke,
      But lays on all he meeteth.

    The Thuskan Poet doth aduance,
    The franticke Paladine of France,
    And those more ancient doe inhaunce,
      Alcides in his fury. 
    And others Aiax Telamon,
    But to this time there hath bin non,
    So Bedlam as our Oberon,
      Of which I dare assure you. 200

    And first encountring with a waspe,
    He in his armes the Fly doth claspe
    As though his breath he forth would graspe,
      Him for Pigwiggen taking: 
    Where is my wife thou Rogue, quoth he,
    Pigwiggen, she is come to thee,
    Restore her, or thou dy’st by me,
      Whereat the poore waspe quaking,

    Cryes, Oberon, great Fayrie King,
    Content thee I am no such thing, 210
    I am a Waspe behold my sting,
      At which the Fayrie started: 
    When soone away the Waspe doth goe,
    Poore wretch was neuer frighted so,
    He thought his wings were much to slow,
      O’rioyd, they so were parted.

    He next vpon a Glow-worme light,
    (You must suppose it now was night),
    Which for her hinder part was bright,
      He tooke to be a Deuill. 220
    And furiously doth her assaile
    For carrying fier in her taile
    He thrasht her rough coat with his flayle,
      The mad King fear’d no euill.

    O quoth the Gloworme hold thy hand,
    Thou puisant King of Fayrie land,
    Thy mighty stroaks who may withstand,
      Hould, or of life despaire I: 
    Together then her selfe doth roule,
    And tumbling downe into a hole, 230
    She seem’d as black as any Cole,
      Which vext away the Fayrie.