Fris. O Sir, though you Courtiers haue all the honour you haue not all the wit.
Mop. Soft sir, tis not your witte can carry it away in this company.
Io. Sweet Rogues, your companie to me is like musick to a wench at midnight when she lies alone and could wish,—yea, marry could she.
Fris. And thou art as welcome to me as a new poking stick to a Chamber mayd.
Mop. But, soft; who comes here?
Enter the Faieries, singing and dauncing.
By the moone we sport and play,
With the night begins our day;
As we daunce, the deaw doth fall;
Trip it little vrchins all,
Lightly as the little Bee,
Two by two and three by three:
And about go wee, and about go wee.[115]
Io. What Mawmets[116] are these?
Fris. O they be the Fayries that haunt these woods.
Mop. O we shall be pincht most cruelly.