Then I'll bury it deep underground, and throw my book of magic into the sea so that it sinks farther than any anchor has ever reached.Ī solemn air and the best comforter To an unsettled fancy cure thy brains, Now useless, boiled within thy skull. And after I have conjured some heavenly music-as I’m doing now- to achieve my goal of affecting the senses of those at whom I aim my spell, I’ll break my staff. With my strong magic, I've woken the dead and opened their graves to let them out. I've made the sturdy cliffs shake, and pulled up pine and cedar trees by the roots. I've shot off the dreadful rumbling thunderbolt, and burned up Jupiter's strong oak with his own lightning. All you elves of hills, streams, lakes, and forests and you elves who leave no footprints on the sand, chasing the ocean waves as they draw down the beach and running from those same waves when they come back you puppet-sized creatures that by the light of the moon make fairy-rings in the grass, which a sheep will refuse to eat and you who like to make mushrooms at midnight, and who celebrate when you hear the bells signaling the arrival of night-with your help (though none of you are powerful) I've darkened the noon sun, summoned the rebellious winds, and made the green sea and blue sky war against each other. 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. 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 th' 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.
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