Lady Temple turned her round, and upon her back was tied a child’s waggon.  In it were three tiny purses of blue velvet; in one of them a silver cup, in another a crown of laurel, and in the third four new silver pennies, with the patent, signed at top, ’Oberon Imperator’; and two sheets of warrants strung together with blue silk according to form; and at top an office seal of wax and a chaplet of cut paper on it.  The warrants were these: 

  From the Royal Mews: 
  A waggon with the draught horses, delivered by
  command without fee.

From the Lord Chamberlain’s Office:  A warrant with the royal sign manual, delivered by command without fee, being first entered in the office books.

From the Lord Steward’s Office:  A butt of sack, delivered without fee or gratuity, with an order for returning the cask for the use of the office, by command.

  From the Great Wardrobe: 
  Three velvet bags, delivered without fee, by
  command.

  From the Treasurer of the Household’s Office: 
  A year’s salary paid free from land-tax, poundage,
  or any other deduction whatever, by command.

  From the Jewel Office: 
  A silver butt, a silver cup, a wreath of bays, by
  command without fee.

Then came the Patent: 

  By these presents be it known,
  To all who bend before our throne,
  Fays and fairies, elves and sprites,
  Beauteous dames and gallant knights,
  That we, Oberon the grand,
  Emperor of fairy-land,
  King of moonshine, prince of dreams,
  Lord of Aganippe’s streams,
  Baron of the dimpled isles
  That lie in pretty maidens’ smiles,
  Arch-treasurer of all the graces
  Dispersed through fifty lovely faces,
  Sovereign of the slipper’s order,
  With all the rites thereon that border,
  Defender of the sylphic faith,
  Declare—­and thus your monarch saith: 
  Whereas there is a noble dame,
  Whom mortals Countess Temple name,
  To whom ourself did erst impart
  The choicest secrets of our art,
  Taught her to tune the harmonious line
  To our own melody divine,
  Taught her the graceful negligence,
  Which, scorning art and veiling sense,
  Achieves that conquest o’er the heart
  Sense seldom gains, and never art;
  This lady, ’tis our royal will,
  Our laureate’s vacant seat should fill: 
  A chaplet of immortal bays
  Shall crown her brow and guard her lays;
  Of nectar sack an acorn cup
  Be at her board each year filled up;
  And as each quarter feast comes round
  A silver penny shall be found
  Within the compass of her shoe—­
  And so we bid you all adieu!

Given at our palace of Cowslip Castle, the shortest night of the year.

OBERON.

And underneath,

HOTHAMINA.