So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle,
Gently entwist; the female ivy so,
Enring the barky fingers of the elm;
O, how I love thee! How I dote on thee!
Come, my lord, and in our flight,
Tell me how it came this night,
That I sleeping here was found,
With these mortals on the ground.
First rehearse your song by rote,
To each word a warbling note,
Hand in hand, with fairy grace,
We will sing and bless this place.
The moon methinks looks with a watery eye;
And when she weeps, weeps every little flower.
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
It fell upon a little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,
And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
But we are spirits of another sort;
I with the morning's love have oft made sport,
And, like a forester, the groves may tread,
Even till the eastern gate, all fiery red,
Opening on Meptunes with fair blessed beams,
Turns into yellow gold his salt green shadow.
If we shadows have offended,
Think but this - and all is mended -
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding than a dream,
Gentles do not reprehend;
If you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I'm an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to 'scape the serpents tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call:
So good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.