Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,And ye that on the sands with printless footDo chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly himWhen he comes back; you demi-puppets thatBy moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastimeIs to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoiceTo hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimmdThe noontide sun, calld forth the mutinous winds,And twixt the green sea and the azured vaultSet roaring war: to the dread rattling thunderHave I given fire and rifted Joves stout oakWith his own bolt; the strong-based promontoryHave I made shake and by the spurs pluckd upThe pine and cedar: graves at my commandHave waked their sleepers, oped, and let em forthBy my so potent art. But this rough magicI here abjure, and, when I have requiredSome heavenly music, which even now I do,To work mine end upon their senses thatThis airy charm is for, Ill break my staff,Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,And deeper than did ever plummet soundIll drown my book.