Tarry, rash wanton: am I not thy lord?
Titania.
Then I must be thy lady.
And never, since the middle summer's spring,
Met we on hill, forest, or head,
By pavèd fountain or by rushy brook,
Or on the beached margent of the sea,
To dance our ringlet to the whistling wind,
But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport.
Oberon.