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She’s the fairies' midwife. She’s no bigger than the stone on a city councilman’s ring. She rides around in a wagon drawn by tiny little atoms, and she rides over men’s noses as they lie sleeping. The spokes of her wagon are made of spiders' legs. The cover of her wagon is made of grasshoppers' wings. The harnesses are made of the smallest spiderwebs.
Who's Queen Mab?
I fear too early, for my mind misgives Some consequence yet hanging in the stars Shall bitterly begin his fearful date With this night’s revels, and expire the term Of a despisèd life closed in my breast By some vile forfeit of untimely death.
Mercutio goes on and on about Queen Mab
The collars are made out of moonbeams. Her whip is a thread attached to a cricket’s bone. Her wagon driver is a tiny bug in a gray coat; he’s not half the size of a little round worm. It was believed that worms sprung from the fingers of young girls who sat about doing nothing.
Enough, enough! Mercutio, be quiet. You’re talking nonsense.
True. I’m talking about dreams, which are the products of a brain that’s doing nothing. Dreams are nothing but silly imagination, as thin as air, and less predictable than the wind, which sometimes blows on the frozen north and then gets angry and blows south.
The wind you’re talking about is blowing us off our course. Dinner is over, and we’re going to get there too late.
But he that hath the steerage of my course, Direct my sail. On, lusty gentlemen.
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