What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?
I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again
Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note
So is mine eye enthrallèd to thy shape
And thy fair virtue’s force perforce doth move me
On the first view to say, to swear, I love you

Out of this wood do not desire to go
Thou wilt remain here whether thou wilt or no
I am a spirit of no common rate
The summer still doth tend upon my state
And I do love thee. Therefore go with me
I’ll give thee fairies to attend on thee
And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep
And sing while thou on pressèd flowers dost sleep
And I will purge thy mortal grossness so
That thou shalt like an airy spirit go.—
Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustardseed!
Be kind and courteous to this gentleman
And pluck the wings from painted butterflies
To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes
Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies

The moon methinks looks with a watery eye
And when she weeps, weeps every little flower
Lamenting some enforcèd chastity
Tie up my love’s tongue. Bring him silently