From thence he ran into a Hiue,
    Amongst the Bees he letteth driue
    And downe their Coombes begins to riue,
      All likely to haue spoyled: 
    Which with their Waxe his face besmeard,
    And with their Honey daub’d his Beard
    It would haue made a man afeard,
      To see how he was moyled. 240

    A new Aduenture him betides,
    He mett an Ant, which he bestrides,
    And post thereon away he rides,
      Which with his haste doth stumble;
    And came full ouer on her snowte,
    Her heels so threw the dirt about,
    For she by no meanes could get out,
      But ouer him doth tumble.

    And being in this piteous case,
    And all be-slurried head and face, 250
    On runs he in this Wild-goose chase
      As here, and there, he rambles
    Halfe blinde, against a molehill hit,
    And for a Mountaine taking it,
    For all he was out of his wit,
      Yet to the top he scrambles.

    And being gotten to the top,
    Yet there himselfe he could not stop,
    But downe on th’ other side doth chop,
      And to the foot came rumbling:  260
    So that the Grubs therein that bred,
    Hearing such turmoyle ouer head,
    Thought surely they had all bin dead,
      So fearefull was the Iumbling.

    And falling downe into a Lake,
    Which him vp to the neck doth take,
    His fury somewhat it doth slake,
      He calleth for a Ferry;
    Where you may some recouery note,
    What was his Club he made his Boate, 270
    And in his Oaken Cup doth float,
      As safe as in a Wherry.

    Men talke of the Aduentures strange,
    Of Don Quishott, and of their change
    Through which he Armed oft did range,
      Of Sancha Panchas trauell: 
    But should a man tell euery thing,
    Done by this franticke Fayrie king. 
    And them in lofty numbers sing
      It well his wits might grauell. 280

    Scarse set on shore, but therewithall,
    He meeteth Pucke, which most men call
    Hobgoblin, and on him doth fall,
      With words from frenzy spoken;
    Hoh, hoh, quoth Hob, God saue thy grace,
    Who drest thee in this pitteous case,
    He thus that spoild my soueraignes face,
      I would his necke were broken.

    This Puck seemes but a dreaming dolt,
    Still walking like a ragged Colt, 290
    And oft out of a Bush doth bolt,
      Of purpose to deceiue vs. 
    And leading vs makes vs to stray,
    Long Winters nights out of the way,
    And when we stick in mire and clay,
      Hob doth with laughter leaue vs.