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,
210Content thee I am no such thing,
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,
220He tooke to be a Deuill.
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,
230And tumbling downe into a hole,
She seem'd as black as any Cole,
Which vext away the Fayrie.
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,
240To see how he was moyled.
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,
250And all be-slurried head and face,
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,
260And to the foot came rumbling:
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,
270What was his Club he made his Boate,
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
280It well his wits might grauell.