OBERON: I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where the oxlip and the nettle grow, Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine; There sleeps a sleep of death, a sleep of rest, From which I will not wake them till I do best To take them up and to prepare them for bed, And in the morning, then, they'll rise and be fed. Come, my queen, and in our flight, Let us make haste to pass the night, And when the dawn appears, We'll wake the fairies in the fields and their peers.