Oberon’s Feast
A little mushroom-table spread,
After short prayers they set on bread,
A moon-parched grain of purest wheat,
With some small glitt’ring grit, to eat
His choice bits with; then in a trice
They make a feast less great than nice.
But all this while his eye is served,
We must not think his ear was starved;
But that there was in place to stir
His spleen, the chirring grasshopper,
The merry cricket, puling fly,
The piping gnat for minstrelsy.
And now, we must imagine first,
The elves present, to quench his thirst,
A pure seed-pearl of infant dew,
Brought and besweetened in a blue
And pregnant violet; which done,
His kitling eyes begin to run
Quite through the table, where he spies
The horns of papery butterflies,
Of which he eats; and tastes a little
Of that we call the cuckoo’s spittle.
A little fuz-ball puddling stands
By, yet not blessed by his hands,
That was too coarse; but then forthwith
He ventures boldly on the pith
Of sugared rush, and eats the sagg
And well be-strutted bee’s sweet bag;
Gladding his palate with some store
Of emmets’ eggs; what would he more,
But beards of mice, a newt’s stewed thigh,
A bloated earwig, and a fly;
With the red-capped worm, that’s shut
Within the concave of a nut,
Brown as his tooth. A little moth,
Late fattened in a piece of cloth;
With withered cherries, mandrake’s ears,
Mole’s eyes; to these the slain stag’s tears;
The unctuous dewlaps of a snail,
The broke-heart of a nightingale
O’ercome in music; with a wine
Ne’er ravished from the flattering vine,
But gently pressed from the soft side
Of the most sweet and dainty bride,
Brought in a dainty daisy, which
He fully quaffs up to bewitch
His blood to height; this done, commended
Grace by his priest; the feast is ended.
Robert Herrick.