Magic

YE elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves, And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him When he comes back, you demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid, Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds, And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault Set roaring water; to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak With hiw own bolt; the strong-bas'd promontory Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck'd up The pine and cedar; graves at my command Have wak'd their sleepers, op'd, and let 'em forth By my so potent art.