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In this state she gallops, night by night, o'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream. - William Shakespeare Moonshine revellers. - William Shakespeare Set your heart at rest. The fairyland buys not the child of me. - William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream (Titania at II, i) Then, my queen, in silence sad Trip we after night's shade. We the globe can compass soon, Swifter than the wand'ring moon. - William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream (Oberon at IV, i) O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies Over men's noses as they lie asleep; Her wagon spokes made of long spinner's legs, The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; Her traces, of the smallest spider web; Her collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams; Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film; Her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid; Her chariot is an empty hazelnut, Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, Time out o' mind the fairies coachmakers. - William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet (Mercutio at I, iv) This is the fairy land. O spite of spites, We talk with goblins, owls, and sprites! If we obey them not, this will ensue: They'll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue. - William Shakespeare, The Comedy of Errors (Dromio of Syracuse at II, ii) Fairies, black, grey, green, and white, You moonshine revellers, and shades of night, You orphan heirs of fixed destiny, Attend your office and your quality. - William Shakespeare, The Merry Wives of Windsor (Mistress Quickly at V, v) They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die. I'll wink and couch; no man their works must eye. - William Shakespeare, The Merry Wives of Windsor (Falstaff at V, v) Where the bee sucks, there suck I; In a cowslip's bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily. - William Shakespeare, The Tempest (Ariel at V, i) Her berth was of the wombe of morning dew And her conception of the joyous prime. - Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene (bk. III, canto VI, st. 3) But light as any wind that blows So fleetly did she stir, The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and rose, And turned to look at her. - Lord Alfred Tennyson, The Talking Oak (st. 33) Displaying page 2 of 2 for this topic: << Prev 1 [2]
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