nimble. Bottom will
learn you all. Trust Time and Bottom; though in sooth your weeny
Majesty is something less than natural. Drive thy straw deeper,
Mounsieur Mustardseed! there squats a pestilent sweet notion in that
chamber could spellican but set him capering. Prithee your mousemilk
hand on this smooth brow, mistress! Your nectar throbbeth like a
blacksmith's anvil. Master Moth, draw you these bristling lashes down,
they mirk the stars and call yon nothing Quince to mind--a vain,
official knave, in and out, to and fro, play or pleasure; and old Sam
Snout, the wanton! Lad's days and all--'twas life, Tittany; and I was
ever foremost. They'd bob and crook to me like spaniels at a trencher.
Mine was the prettiest conceit, this way, that way, past all
unravelling till envy stretched mine ears. Now I'm old dreams. Gone
all men's joy, your worships, since Bully Bottom took to moonshine.
Where floats your babe's-hand now, Dame Lovepip?"

There he lolled, immortal Bottom, propped on a bed of asphodel and
moly that seemed to curd the moonshine; and at his side, Titania slim
and scarlet, and shimmering like a bride-cake. The sky was dark above
the tapering trees, but here in the secret woods light seemed to cling
in flake and scarf. And it so chanced as our two noses leaned forward
into his retreat that Bottom's head lolled back upon its pillow, and
his bright, simple eyes stared deep into our own.

"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 Bo