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“Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful!” cries Titania to her ass-headed lover, and he by no syllable disclaims the truth, the justice of the eulogy. He swallows the praise as his natural food, takes the sweet sound of his doting goddess as rightful, every-day applause. He is loved by a goddess, for the goddess—we have said it—cannot help it.

The insensibility of the sons of Bottom is one of their grand, their unerring characteristics. It is this profitable faculty that would make them task the daintiest spirits for their own poorest, vilest wants, and dream of nothing monstrous or extravagant in such application.

“I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Cobweb: if I cut my finger, I shall make bold with you.”

“Scratch my head, Peaseblossom.”

“Monsieur Cobweb; good mounsieur, get you your weapons in your hand, and kill me a red-hipped bumble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good mounsieur, bring me the honey-bag.”

Thus spoke the great progenitor, Bottom; and of a verity his children are not more shame-faced task-masters.