Come, now a roundel and a fairy song;
Then, for the third part of a minute,
The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve.
Lovers, to bed! ’Tis almost fairy time.
I fear we shall outsleep the coming morn
As much as we this night have overwatched.
These are the forgeries of jealousy:
And never, since the middle summer’s spring,
Met we on hill, in dale,
And this same progeny of evils comes
From our debate, from our dissension;
We are their parents and original.
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green,
For lack of tread, are undistinguishable.
And thorough this distemperature, we see
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,