His mother was a witch; and one so strong That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs,
He does hear me; And, that he does, I weep: myself am Naples, Who with mine eyes,—never since at ebb,—beheld The King, my father wrack’d.
Ebbing men indeed, Most often, do so near the bottom run By their own fear or sloth.
Do so: to ebb, Hereditary sloth instructs me.
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves; And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him When he comes back; you demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,— Weak masters though ye be,—I have bedimm’d The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds, And ’twixt the green sea andů