OBERON

Much have I longed for thy return, my sprite: This greenwood, once the stage of elfin pranks And welkin-splitting laughter, has become A desert in thy absence. Now these stories Burrow beneath my ribs and chase away The bile, for they reveal a madder world Than what Lysander knew and Hermia. Poor Bottom in his downiest moments saw No visions such as these that thou relatest— That fire should burn in water; mortals fly Throughout the empyrean on the backs Of birds; and whales with whirling fins should leave Their native element and take the air Across the land and sea with greater speed Than falcons; and that lovers could exchange Their vows in whispers at the self-same instant, Though separate a thousand ocean leagues— These tales would tax my own too credulous ears, As though I heard accounts of wrathful capons Tracking Hyrcanian tigers to their lairs. Hast thou another fable in thy scrip?

PUCK

My Prince of Shadows, these reports I've brought Are more than fantasies that might disturb The reason through the love-juice of a herb. I saw the strangest duel ever fought— Sir Guy, Knight of the Garter, famous knight, Has challenged valiant Boris, famous count, To settle a reckoning in single fight. Boris not only questioned the amount, The nature and occasion of the debt, But forwarded a diplomatic note To the knightly challenger that, when they met, He would be pleased to take him by the throat, With many a courtly phrase which might imply His general opinion of Sir Guy. So, to collect, a journey was begun, Which, for the distance under broiling sun And pelting rain, had the same pith of sense As if a man might barter pounds for pence. At last when they appeared in mutual sight Upon two neighbouring hills where a ravine That ended in a quagmire lay between, The count began to bellow at the knight With fearful imprecations while Sir Guy Called Boris a bat, a polecat and a kite, A worm, an adder and a wart-hog—Why They should attack each other with such words I know not, but when finished with the birds And all the noxious animals, they hurled The missiles of the vegetable world. And while they cursed they put more armour on Their steeds, beyond all war comparison, And on themselves already over-weight: For every oath they added some new plate To some new part of their anatomy, And when they had their beavers down, no hint Of mortal man escaped captivity Save through the eye-slits where the sovereign glint Of reason peered blasted with ecstasy.

OBERON

This is the visitation of the moon! But, prithee, how with such accoutrement Climbed they up to the saddles of their coursers?

PUCK

A dozen robust yeomen by main force Managed to get Sir Guy upon his horse. As many knights accomplished the same feat— Placing against the withers of the mount A ladder, they pushed up the angry count And got him fastened well astride his seat. Nor was this all: To see through their disguise And find the men, I had to rub my eyes. As though the armour were not yet complete, The henchmen brought another piece of mail Shaped like a conduit or a metal hose And screwed it to each gladiator's nose. Far-off it might have been a dragon's tail, But on a closer view it had the look Of an elephant's trunk, when it recurved On the cuirass—What was the purpose served? The devil knows; so crazed it was I shook With laughing paroxysms, then with fright, For suddenly the day became as night, The curses took on corporal form—so rank The poisonous emanations were, they swept Across the gap and up the hills and stank Like an Irish fen. The squires, they broke and wept; The knights, they choked; while I ran off for cover To an acorn cup and drew a rose-leaf over.

OBERON

Whither did all this lead, my gentle Puck? Did they sit howling on those hills forever?

PUCK

I went to sleep within my nest of oak To rinse the portent through a dream, then woke, Uncuddled, and stole forth to banks I knew, Where violets, musk-rose and wild thyme grew: I filched them from their beds and sent them out (With a million glow-worms lighting up the air) To pour their distillation through the rout Of wind and stench. Anon, I looked and there Unmoved, the same infuriated pair— Sir Guy, rigid, barking his challenge still, And Boris booming, bellowing from the hill.

OBERON

This story would outwit all tricks of mirth Known to the gullible within my realm. Such folly falling on a broken mirror Could scarce distort its own insane grimaces. How were they loosened from their pedestals?

PUCK

My lord! I scouted round the clover fields And drove out from their lazy honey yields A furious colony of humble-bees. I fanned them up both hills and bade them squeeze Through rivet cracks and joints, and stick like leeches To the bare lard within the warriors' breeches. I then fled to a pine tree top and heard A pandemonium of oaths and screeches, And by the buckle creakings and the gird Of the loin plates upon their rusty hinges, I knew how well my squads clapped on the twinges. But this, my master, could not get them parted From their incorporate posts, and so I tried A prank that I devised one Hallowtide Which never failed to get two fighters started. Changing myself into a gamecock, I With bristling hackles, and my comb blood-red, Settled upon the helmet of Sir Guy, Until the proud arch of my neck and head Assumed the tartness of a Parthian bow. With such inflammatory mien, I crew Six notes contemptuous at Boris who Stiffened and took the insult like a blow. In half a second, like a meteorite, I landed on the county's helm and shrilled The fiery syllables back at the knight. Thou shouldst have heard my clarion as I drilled Helmet and skull to pierce the globèd brain. Each lusty crow held triumph and disdain: I nearly tore my wattles when I blew it, For my restored ears still feel the pain. Zounds, sir, the way the count and knight went to it!

OBERON

The impact of those mighty opposites, Spurred to their wrath by such a vent of scorn, Must have, like an Olympian avalanche, Brought terror to the battlements of Jove.

PUCK

Nay, nay, your Majesty—'twas no such fun. Never indeed was there a tilt begun With heraldry like this, that ended so. The rivals did not strike a single blow. When once they started off, they could not stop. They did not seem to ride so much as drop To the solid earth, then rise, bound through the air, Which angry at their overweening pride Bounced them from knoll to knoll, made them collide With their own saddles, till the exhausted pair— Pitched from their stallions which, poor jades, were wrecked By the very iron bands meant to protect The fetlocks—took one final somersault Into the miry bottom of the vault. I watched them wallowing like drunken grooms, Pursuing a blind orbit in the mud, Only the gesture of their fighting blood Waving defiance from the bankrupt plumes. Count Boris' nozzle sent a farewell blast, Claiming a fatuous triumph, while a high Blue feather from the proud knob of Sir Guy, Striving to keep erect, gave up the last Frail effort of heroic pantomime, To fall like a snapped water-flag and lie Prone in the sea-green bubbles on the slime.

OBERON

Enough, my romping elf! I pray, enough! In these reports there's matter to regale Titania through many a sulky moon. Had Nestor heard them, he'd have cracked his sides. The sport that night in the Athenian grove, Compared with this, was but episcopal. There's not a planet left that keeps its course; The distaff cracks; the dizzy earth is run By three inebriated witches—Stay!

PUCK

Another tale of men I could recite— Of wing-clipped human eagles living in holes Under the ground in envy of the moles... But I shall leave that for a winter night.

OBERON

I know not what thou hast in mind to say, But hold! It is not well those jests should come In troops—They have a boding sentry face And smell too strongly of mortality.