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Now the wasted brands do glow,
Whilft the scritch-owl, scritching loud, Puts the wretch, that lies in woey
In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night,
That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his fpright,
In the church-way paths to glide And we Fairies, that do run
By the triple Hecate's team,
Following darkness like a dream,
Enter King and Queen of Fairies, with their traini
By the dead and drowsie fire, also intended to be represented'; I make no Question but the Poet
And the Wolfe behowls the Moon. For fo the Wolf is exactly characteriz'd, it being his peculiar Property to howl at the Moon. (Behowl, as bemoan, befeem, betrim, and an hundred others.)
Mr. Warburtoni So, again, in As you like it.
Pray you, no more of this; 'tis like the bowling of Irish Wolves
against the Moon So in Beaumont and Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess.
or the Owl, Or our great Enemy, that fill doth howl
Against the Moon's pale Beams.
Now barks the Wolf against the full-cheek'd Moon;
the Graves, and throtbeir Yawns let loose
Every elf, and fairy sprite,
Hop as light as bird from brier;
Queen. First rehearse this song by roat,
The S O N G.
Now, until the break of day,
Puck. If we shadows have offended,
Gentles, do not reprehend;