Magic

YE elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves,

And ye that on the sands with printless foot

Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him

When he comes back, you demi-puppets that

By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,

Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime

Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice

To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,

Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd

The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,

And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault

Set roaring water; to the dread rattling thunder

Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak

With hiw own bolt; the strong-bas'd promontory

Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck'd up

The pine and cedar; graves at my command

Have wak'd their sleepers, op'd, and let 'em forth

By my so potent art.