We stood
listening, and the voice broke out again.
"Tittany--nay, Tittany, you'll crack my sides with laughing. Have
again at you! love your master and you'll wax nimble. Bottom will
learn you all. Trust Time and Bottom; though in sooth your weeny
Majesty is something less than natural. Drive thy straw deeper,
Mounsieur Mustardseed! there squats a pestilent sweet notion in that
chamber could spellican but set him capering. Prithee your mousemilk
hand on this smooth brow, mistress! Your nectar throbbeth like a
blacksmith's anvil. Master Moth, draw you these bristling lashes down,
they mirk the stars and call yon nothing Quince to mind--a vain,
official knave, in and out, to and fro, play or pleasure; and old Sam
Snout, the wanton! Lad's days and all--'twas life, Tittany; and I was
ever foremost. They'd bob and crook to me like spaniels at a trencher.
Mine was the prettiest conceit, this way, that way, past all
unravelling till envy stretched mine ears. Now I'm old dreams. Gone
all men's joy, your worships, since Bully Bottom took to moonshine.
Where floats your babe's-hand now, Dame Lovepip?"
There he lolled, immortal Bottom, propped on a bed of asphodel and
moly that seemed to curd the moonshine; and at his side, Titania slim
and scarlet, and shimmering like a bride-cake.
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