'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 bedimmed
the noontide sun,
called forth the mutinous
winds, and 'twixt
the green sea and the azured
vault set roaring war.
To the dread rattling
thunder have I
given fire and rifted Jove's
stout oak with his own bolt.
The strong-based
promontory have I
made shake, and by the spurs
plucked up the pine and cedar.
Graves at my command have
waked their sleepers,
oped, and let 'em forth
by my so potent art.
But this rough
magic I here abjure.
And when I have required
some heavenly music
- which even now I do - to
work mine end upon their senses
that this airy charm is
for, I'll break my staff,
bury it certain
fathoms in the earth.
And deeper than did ever plummet
sound I'll drown my book.'
