📔 A Midsummer Night's Dream

And as imagination bodies forth / The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen / Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing / A local habitation and a name.

Come recreant, come thou childe, / Ile whippe thee with a rodde. He is defil'd, / That drawes a sword on thee.

Or in the night, imagining some feare, / How easie is a bush suppos’d a Beare?

Have you no modesty, no maiden shame?