From thence he ran into a hive:
Amongst the bees he letteth drive,
And down their combs begins to rive,
All likely to have spoiléd,
Which with their wax his face besmeared,
And with their honey daubed his beard:
It would have made a man afeared
To see how he was moiléd.
A new adventure him betides;
He met an Ant, which he bestrides,
And post thereon away he rides,
Which with his haste doth stumble;
And came full over on her snout,
Her heels so threw the dirt about,
For she by no means could get out,
But over him doth tumble.
And being in this piteous case,
And all be-slurréd head and face,
On runs he in this wild-goose chase,
As here and there he rambles;
Half blind, against a mole-hill hit,
And for a mountain taking it,
For all he was out of his wit
Yet to the top he scrambles.
And being gotten to the top,
Yet there himself he could not stop,
But down on th’ other side doth chop,
And to the foot came rumbling;
So that the grubs, therein that bred,
Hearing such turmoil over head,
Thought surely they had all been dead;
So fearful was the jumbling.
And falling down into a lake,
Which him up to the neck doth take,
His fury somewhat it doth slake;
He calleth for a ferry;
Where you may some recovery note;
What was his club he made his boat,
And in his oaken cup doth float,
As safe as in a wherry.
Men talk of the adventures strange
Of Don Quixoit, and of their change
Through which he arméd oft did range,
Of Sancho Pancha’s travel;
But should a man tell every thing
Done by this frantic Fairy King,
And them in lofty numbers sing,
It well his wits might gravel.
Scarce set on shore, but therewithal
He meeteth Puck, which most men call
Hobgoblin, and on him doth fall,
With words from frenzy spoken:
“Oh, oh,” quoth Hob, “God save thy grace!
Who drest thee in this piteous case?
He thus that spoiled my sovereign’s face,
I would his neck were broken!”
This Puck seems but a dreaming dolt,
Still walking like a ragged colt,
And oft out of a bush doth bolt,
Of purpose to deceive us;
And leading us makes us to stray,
Long winter’s nights, out of the way;
And when we stick in mire and clay,
Hob doth with laughter leave us.
“Dear Puck,” quoth he, “my wife is gone:
As e’er thou lov’st King Oberon,
Let everything but this alone,
With vengeance and pursue her;
Bring her to me alive or dead,
Or that vile thief, Pigwiggin’s head,
That villain hath [my Queen misled];
He to this folly drew her.”
Quoth Puck, “My liege, I’ll never lin,
But I will thorough thick and thin,
Until at length I bring her in;
My dearest lord, ne’er doubt it.”
Thorough brake, thorough briar,
Thorough muck, thorough mire,
Thorough water, thorough fire;
And thus goes Puck about it.