The object of Art is to give life a shape.
A maiden hath no tongue--but thought.
Twas a clever quibble. Here, a garment for it.
Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?
Downy sleep, death's counterfeit.
Captain of our fairy band, Helena is here at hand, And the youth, mistook by me, Pleading for a lover's fee. Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be!