As dainty spring moves fast to ruddy summer,
Now I this household nudge to life again,
The good mechanicals to call to arms,
Yet find them other places occupied.
A play, they say, for Theseus, the duke,
A steady man, and yea, for all his guests,
While I am left to wring my hands and sigh
For all the ragged want of cottage fey.
Quince, the roof, the shingles’ wagging tongues,
The canted frames, Snug, put them back to right,
Bottom, you ass, for new frocks set your loom,
Robin, these coats do fix, then put away,
Francis, mend, for fires need baking bread,
Snout, the pans and pots beg well your hand.
The play, the thing, can wait, for urgent parts
Your friendly band for kern-bards clamor thus
And need we too the balm of laughter’s sun
Flute, to play. ‘Tis almost dinnertime.