Rom: So we meane well by going to this maske:
But tis no wit to goe.
Mer: Why Romeo may one aske? 35
Rom: I dreamt a dreame to night.
Mer: And so did I. Rom: Why what was yours?
Mer: That dreamers often lie.
Rom: In bed a sleepe while they doe dreame things true.
Mer: Ah then I see Queene Mab hath bin with you. 40
Ben: Queene Mab whats she?
She is the Fairies Midwife and doth come
In shape no bigger than an Aggat stone
On the forefinger of a Burgomaster,
Drawne with a teeme of little Atomi, 45
A thwart mens noses when they lie a sleepe.
Her waggon spokes are made of spinners webs,
The couer, of the winges of Grashoppers,
The traces are the Moone-shine watrie beames,
The collers crickets bones, the lash of filmes, 50
Her waggoner is a small gray coated flie,
Not halfe so big as is a little worme,
Pickt from the lasie finger of a maide,
And in this sort she gallops vp and downe
Through Louers braines, and then they dream of loue: 55
O're Courtiers knees: who strait on cursies dreame
O're Ladies lips, who dreame on kisses strait:
Which oft the angrie Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breathes with sweet meats tainted are:
Sometimes she gallops ore a Lawers lap, 60
And then dreames he of smelling out a sute,
And sometime comes she with a tithe pigs taile,
Tickling a Parsons nose that lies a sleepe,
And then dreames he of another benefice:
Sometime she gallops ore a souldiers nose, 65
And then dreames he of cutting forraine throats,
Of breaches ambuscados, countermines,
Of healthes fiue fadome deepe, and then anon
Drums in his eare: at which he startes and wakes,
And sweares a Praier or two and sleepes againe. 70
This is that Mab that makes maids lie on their backes,
And proues them women of good cariage.
This is the verie Mab that plats the manes of Horses in the night,
And plats the Elfelocks in foule sluttish haire,
Which once vntangled much misfortune breedes. 75
Rom: Peace, peace, thou talkst of nothing.
Mer: True I talke of dreames,
Which are the Children of an idle braine,
Begot of nothing but vaine fantasie,
Which is as thinne a substance as the aire, 80
And more inconstant than the winde,
Which wooes euen now the frosē bowels of the north,
And being angred puffes away in haste,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.