And to the Queene a Letter writes,
    Which he most curiously endites,
    Coniuring her by all the rites
      Of loue, she would be pleased,
    To meete him her true Seruant, where
    They might without suspect or feare, 110
    Themselues to one another cleare,
      And haue their poore hearts eased.

    At mid-night the appointed hower,
    And for the Queene a fitting bower,
    (Quoth he) is that faire Cowslip flower,
      On Hipcut hill that groweth,
    In all your Trayne there’s not a Fay,
    That euer went to gather May,
    But she hath made it in her way,
      The tallest there that groweth. 120

    When by Tom Thum a Fayrie Page,
    He sent it, and doth him engage,
    By promise of a mighty wage,
      It secretly to carrie: 
    Which done, the Queene her maydes doth call,
    And bids them to be ready all,
    She would goe see her Summer Hall,
      She could no longer tarrie.

    Her Chariot ready straight is made,
    Each thing therein is fitting layde, 130
    That she by nothing might be stayde,
      For naught must be her letting,
    Foure nimble Gnats the Horses were,
    Their Harnasses of Gossamere,
    Flye Cranion her Chariottere,
      Vpon the Coach-box getting.

    Her Chariot of a Snayles fine shell,
    Which for the colours did excell: 
    The faire Queene Mab, becomming well,
      So liuely was the limming:  140
    The seate the soft wooll of the Bee;
    The couer, (gallantly to see)
    The wing of a pyde Butterflee,
      I trowe t’was simple trimming.

    The wheeles compos’d of Crickets bones,
    And daintily made for the nonce,
    For feare of ratling on the stones,
      With Thistle-downe they shod it;
    For all her Maydens much did feare,
    If Oberon had chanc’d to heare, 150
    That Mab his Queene should haue bin there,
      He would not haue aboad it.

    She mounts her Chariot with a trice,
    Nor would she stay for no advice,
    Vntill her Maydes that were so nice,
      To wayte on her were fitted,
    But ranne her selfe away alone;
    Which when they heard there was not one,
    But hasted after to be gone,
      As she had beene diswitted. 160

    Hop, and Mop, and Drop so cleare,
    Pip, and Trip, and Skip that were,
    To Mab their Soueraigne euer deare: 
      Her speciall Maydes of Honour;
    Fib, and Tib, and Pinck, and Pin,
    Tick, and Quick, and Iill, and Iin,
    Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Win,
      The Trayne that wayte vpon her.