Mer. O then I see Queene Mab hath beene with you:
She is the Fairies Midwife, & she comes in shape no bigger
then Agat-stone, on the fore-finger of an Alderman,
drawne with a teeme of little Atomies, ouer mens noses as
they lie asleepe: her Waggon Spokes made of long Spinners
legs: the Couer of the wings of Grashoppers, her
Traces of the smallest Spiders web, her coullers of the
Moonshines watry Beames, her Whip of Crickets bone,
the Lash of Philome, her Waggoner, a small gray-coated
Gnat, not halfe so bigge as a round little Worme, prickt
from the Lazie-finger of a man. Her Chariot is an emptie
Haselnut, made by the Ioyner Squirrel or old Grub, time
out a mind, the Faries Coach-makers: & in this state she
gallops night by night, through Louers braines: and then
they dreame of Loue. On Courtiers knees, that dreame on
Cursies strait: ore Lawyers fingers, who strait dreampt on
Fees, ore Ladies lips, who strait on kisses dreame, which
oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, because their
breath with Sweet meats tainted are. Sometime she gallops
ore a Courtiers nose, & then dreames he of smelling
out a sute: & somtime comes she with Tith pigs tale, tickling
a Parsons nose as a lies asleepe, then he dreames of
another Benefice. Sometime she driueth ore a Souldiers
necke, & then dreames he of cutting Forraine throats, of
Breaches, Ambuscados, Spanish Blades: Of Healths fiue
Fadome deepe, and then anon drums in his eares, at which
he startes and wakes; and being thus frighted, sweares a
prayer or two & sleepes againe: this is that very Mab that
plats the manes of Horses in the night: & bakes the Elklocks
in foule sluttish haires, which once vntangled, much
misfortune bodes,
This is the hag, when Maides lie on their backs,
That presses them, and learnes them first to beare,
Making them women of good carriage:
This is she
Rom. Peace, peace, Mercutio peace,
Thou talk'st of nothing
Mer. True, I talke of dreames:
Which are the children of an idle braine,
Begot of nothing, but vaine phantasie,
Which is as thin of substance as the ayre,
And more inconstant then the wind, who wooes
Euen now the frozen bosome of the North:
And being anger'd, puffes away from thence,
Turning his side to the dew dropping South
Ben. This wind you talke of blowes vs from our selues,
Supper is done, and we shall come too late
Rom. I feare too early, for my mind misgiues,
Some consequence yet hanging in the starres,
Shall bitterly begin his fearefull date
With this nights reuels, and expire the tearme
Of a despised life clos'd in my brest:
By some vile forfeit of vntimely death.
But he that hath the stirrage of my course,
Direct my sute: on lustie Gentlemen
Ben. Strike Drum.
They march about the Stage, and Seruingmen come forth with
their napkins.
Enter Seruant.
Ser. Where's Potpan, that he helpes not to take away?
He shift a Trencher? he scrape a Trencher?
1. When good manners, shall lie in one or two mens
hands, and they vnwasht too, 'tis a foule thing
Ser. Away with the Ioynstooles, remoue the Courtcubbord,
looke to the Plate: good thou, saue mee a piece
of Marchpane, and as thou louest me, let the Porter let in
Susan Grindstone, and Nell, Anthonie and Potpan