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(no subject)  
10:02pm 07/07/2005
Oh I see Queen Mab hath been with you
She is the ferries midwife
And she comes in the shape no bigger than an agot-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman
Her Chariot is an empty hazelnut
Made by a joiner squirrel or an old grub
Time out of mind the ferries coach-makers
Her wagon spokes make of long spinners’ legs
Her cover of the wings of grasshoppers
Her traces of the smallest spiders’ web
Her collars of the moonshine’s watr’y beams
Her whip of cricket bone lash of film
Her waggoner a small gray-coated gnat
Not half so big as a round little worm pricked from
the lazy finger of a maid
And in this state she gallops
night by night through lover’s brains
And they dream of love
O’er courtiers knees and they dream
on curtsies straight
O’er lawyer’s fingers who straight dream on fees
O’er ladies lips who straight on kisses dream
Which the angry Mab with blisters plagued
Because their breath with sweet meats tainted are
Sometimes she drives over a courtier’s nose and he
dreams of smelling out a suit
Some times she comes with a tithe-pigs tail tickling a
parson’s nose as he lies asleep
And he dreams of another benefice
Sometimes she drives over a soldier’s neck
And he dreams of cutting foreign throats
Of breaches, ambuscados, Spanish blades, of healths
five fathom deep
And then anon drums in his ears at which he starts and wakes
And thus being frightened swears a prayer or two and then
He sleeps again
Oh he sleeps again
This is the very Mab that plates the mains of horses in the night
And bakes the elf-locks into foul sluttish hairs
Which once untangled much misfortune bodes
This is the very hag that when maidens lie on their backs
She presses them and learns them first to bear
Making them women of good carriage
This is she

True I talk of dreams which are the children of an idle brain
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy
Which is as thin a substance as the air
And more inconstant than the wind
That woos even now from the frozen bosom of the North
And thus being angered puffs away from thence
Turning his side to the dew-dropping South
I talk of dreams
I talk of she
mood: rampantrampant
music: wait for it ...
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(no subject)
07:26pm 07/07/2005 (UTC)
Magical Truthsaying Bastard Shadesong
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