Oh, then I see Queen Madh that's been with you. She is the fairies midwife and she comes in shape. No bigger than an agate stone on the forefinger of an old woman. Draw one with a team of little atomists. A thought-men's noses as they lie asleep. Her wagon spokes a laid of long spinners legs. The cover at the wings of grasshoppers. The traces of the smallest spiders web. The collars of the moon shines watery beams. A whip-catch of crickets foam. The lash of film. Her wagoner, a small grey-coated net. Not half so big as a round little worm. Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid. Her chariot is an empty hazel. That made by the joiner squirrel or old grub. Time out for fine the fairies' coat-makers. In this state she gaps night by night through the others' brains. And then they dream of love. Oh, a courty-as-neez. The dream on Curtsy Street. Oh, a lawyer's fingers. Who straight dream on fees? Oh, a lady's lips. Who straight on Kisses' dream. Which off the angry mag with blisters, Blake. Because their breaths with sweet meat-stated are. Sometimes she gallops or a courty-as-nose. And then dreams he of smelling out a suit. And sometimes comes she with a tight pig's tail. Tickling a passon's nose as a lice of sleep. Then dreams he of another benefits. Sometimes she drive a ther a soldier's neck. And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats of bridges and bascarlos, spanish blades of herald's five-vellum deep. And then anon drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes and being thus frited, swears a prayer or two and sleeps. Okay. This is that very map that plats the means of horses in the night and bakes the elf-flops in foul sluts-ish hairs, which once untangled much misfortune buds. This is the hat when made lying on their backs, that presses them and learns them first to bear making them women of good carrots. This is she. True. I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idol braid. Begotten nothing but vain fantasy, which is as thin of substance as the air, and more inconsistent than the wind who wooves even now of frozen bosom of the door. And being angered pucks away from fence, turning his face to the dew-dropping south.