A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent--sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.

O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. . . . She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomi Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep.

He is not worthy of the honey-comb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.

He kills her in her own humor.

Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania

Tis but a base, ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.