The seat, the soft wool of the bee,
The cover (gallantly to see)
The wing of a pied butterflee;
I trow ’twas simple trimming.
The wheels composed of crickets’ bones,
And daintily made for the nonce;
For fear of rattling on the stones,
With thistle-down they shod it:
For all her maidens much did fear,
If Oberon had chanced to hear,