So wont to win the air on wanton wings,
Imprison’d in the caves of bears or boles
Of mouldy oaks, in age-long lethargy—
Half dead, but for their beating hearts, that fright
The furry denizens dwelling there.
Titania. The furry denizens dwelling there.And so
The stars have spill’d their silvery beams in vain,
Teeming the flowers’ chalices with light,
But not for us; nor have we ever heard
The tree-top throstle clarioning the Spring.