I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again: Mine ear is much enamour’d of thy note; So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape; And thy fair virtue’s force perforce doth move me On the first view to say, to swear, I love thee.

Out of this wood do not desire to go: Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no. I am a spirit of no common rate: The summer still doth tend upon my state; And I do love thee: therefore, go with me; I’ll give thee fairies to attend on thee; And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep, And sing while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep: And I will purge thy mortal grossness so That thou shalt like an airy spirit go. Peaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed!