And have their poor hearts eased.

At midnight, the appointed hour;
"And for the Queen a fitting bower,"
Quoth he, "is that fair cowslip flower
On Hient Hill that bloweth; {100}
In all your train there's not a fay
That ever went to gather may
But she hath made it, in her way,
The tallest there that groweth."

When by Tom Thumb, a Fairy Page,
He sent it, and doth him engage
By promise of a mighty wage
It secretly to carry;
Which done, the Queen her maids doth call,
And bids them to be ready all:
She would go see her summer hall,
She could no longer tarry.

Her chariot ready straight is made,
Each thing therein is fitting laid,
That she by nothing might be stayed,
For nought must be her letting;
Four nimble gnats the horses were,
Their harnesses of gossamere,
Fly Cranion the charioteer
Upon the coach-box getting.

Her chariot of a snail's fine shell,