my brain, and flame's a frisky bedfellow. Avaunt! avaunt ye! Would now
my true friend Bottom the weaver were at my side. His was a courage
to make princes great. Prithee, Queen Tittany, no more such cozening
possets!"

I drew Rosinante back into the leaves.

"Droop now thy honeyed lids, my dearest love!" I heard a clear voice
answer. "There's nought can harm thee in these silvered woods: no bird
that pipes but love incites his throat, and never a dewdrop wells but
whispers peace!"

"Ay, ay, 'tis very well, you have a gift, you have a gift, Tittany's
for twisting words to sugarsticks. But la, there, what wots your
trickling whey of that coal-piffling Prince of Flies! I'm Bottom the
weaver, I am. He knows not his mother's ring-finger that knows not
Nick Bottom. Back, back, ye jigging dreams! 'Tis Puckling nods. Ha'
done, ha' done--there's no sweet sanity in an asshead more if I quaff
their elvish ... Out now ... Ha' done, I say!"

Then indeed he slumbered truly, this engarlanded weaver, his lids
concealing all bright speculation, his jowl of vanity (foe of the
Philistine) at peace: and I might gaze unperceived. The moon filled
his mossy cubicle with her untrembling beams, streamed upon blossoms
sweet and heavy as Absalom's hair, while tiny plumes wafted into the
night the scent of thyme and meadow-sweet.

I know not how long they would have kept me prisoner with their
illusive music. I dared not move, scarce wink; for much as immortality
may mollify hairiness, I had no wish to live too frank.