This is fairy-gold, boy, and 'twill prove so. We are lucky, boy, and _to be so still requires nothing but secresy_.[400]

In Cymbeline, the innocent Imogen commits herself to sleep with these words:--

To your protection I commit me, gods!

_From fairies and the tempters of the night, Guard me_, beseech ye!

And when the two brothers see her in their cave, one cries--

But that it eats our victuals, I should think Here were a fairy.

And thinking her to be dead, Guiderius declares--

If he be gone, he'll make his grave a bed; With female fairies will his tomb be haunted, And worms will not come to thee.

The Maydes Metamorphosis of Lylie was acted in 1600, the year the oldest edition we possess of the Midsummer Night's Dream was printed.

In Act II. of this piece, Mopso, Joculo, and Frisio are on the stage, and "Enter the Fairies singing and dancing."

By the moon we sport and play, With the night begins our day; As we dance the dew doth fall-- Trip it, little urchins all, Lightly as the little bee, Two by two, and three by three; And about go we, and about go we.

_Jo._ What mawmets are these?

_Fris._ O they be the faieries that haunt these woods.

_Mop._ O we shall be pinched most cruelly!

_1st Fai._ Will you have any music, sir?

_2d Fai._ Will you have any fine music?

_3d Fai._ Most dainty music?

_Mop._ We must set a face on it now; there is no flying.

No, sir, we very much thank you.

_1st Fai._ O but you shall, sir.

_Fris._ No, I pray you, save your labour.

_2d Fai._ O, sir! it shall not cost you a penny.

_Jo._ Where be your fiddles?

_3d Fai._ You shall have most dainty instruments, sir?

_Mop._ I pray you, what might I call you?

_1st Fai._ My name is Penny.

_Mop._ I am sorry I cannot purse you.

_Fris._ I pray you, sir, what might I call you?

_2d Fai._ My name is Cricket.

_Fris._ I would I were a chimney for your sake.

_Jo._ I pray you, you pretty little fellow, what's your name?

_3d Fai._ My name is little little Prick.

_Jo._ Little little Prick? O you are a dangerous faierie!

I care not whose hand I were in, so I were out of yours.

_1st Fai._ I do come about the coppes.

Leaping upon flowers' toppes; Then I get upon a fly, She carries me about the sky, And trip and go.

_2d Fai._ When a dew-drop falleth down, And doth light upon my crown.

Then I shake my head and skip, And about I trip.

_3d Fai._ When I feel a girl asleep, Underneath her frock I peep, There to sport, and there I play, Then I bite her like a flea, And about I skip.

_Jo._ I thought where I should have you.

_1st Fai._ Will't please you dance, sir?

_Jo._ Indeed, sir, I cannot handle my legs.

_2d Fai._ O you must needs dance and sing, Which if you refuse to do, We will pinch you black and blue; And about we go.

They all dance in a ring, and sing as followeth:--

Round about, round about, in a fine ring a, Thus we dance, thus we dance, and thus we sing a; Trip and go, to and fro, over this green a, All about, in and out, for our brave queen a.

Round about, round about, in a fine ring a, Thus we dance, thus we dance, and thus we sing a; Trip and go, to and fro, over this green a, All about, in and out, for our brave queen a.

We have danced round about, in a fine ring a, We have danced lustily, and thus we sing a, All about, in and out, over this green a, To and fro, trip and go, to our brave queen a.

The next poet, in point of time, who employs the Fairies, is worthy, long-slandered, and maligned Ben Jonson. His beautiful entertainment of the Satyr was presented in 1603, to Anne, queen of James I. and prince Henry, at Althorpe, the seat of Lord Spenser, on their way from Edinburgh to London. As the queen and prince entered the park, a Satyr came forth from a "little spinet" or copse, and having gazed the "Queen and the Prince in the face" with admiration, again retired into the thicket; then "there came tripping up the lawn a bevy of Fairies attending on Mab, their queen, who, falling into an artificial ring, began to dance a round while their mistress spake as followeth:"

_Mab._ Hail and welcome, worthiest queen!

Joy had never perfect been, To the nymphs that haunt this green, Had they not this evening seen.

_Now they print it on the ground With their feet, in figures round_; Marks that will be ever found To remember this glad stound.

_Satyr_ (_peeping out of the bush_).

Trust her not, you bonnibell, She will forty leasings tell; I do know her pranks right well.

_Mab._ Satyr, we must have a spell, For your tongue it runs too fleet.