Enter PUCK.

OBERON         Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer.

PUCK  Ay, there it is.

OBERON                                 I pray thee give it me.

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.

There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,

Lulled in these flowers with dances and delight;

And there the snake throws her enamelled skin,

Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.

And with the juice of this I’ll streak her eyes,

And make her full of hateful fantasies.        (2.1.247-258)

Puck’s back! In performance he’s sometimes out of breath, wheezing with the effort: hast thou the flower there? asks Oberon, eager to put his plan into action, now twice over; welcome, wanderer, he adds, belatedly. Ay, there it is, yes, I’m fine, thank you very much for asking, no trouble at all (a grumpy Puck gets easy laughs, and can make him less sinister). I pray thee give it me; Oberon isn’t into saying thank you, or, here, why don’t you sit down, take the weight off your feet, can I get you anything? (There’s another version of this exchange in Juliet sending the Nurse to meet with Romeo.)

The flower presumably in hand, Oberon begins by conjuring a beautiful vision: I know a bank where the wild thyme blows—oh, it smells wonderful—where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, quite overcanopied with luscious woodbine, with sweet musk roses and with eglantine. It’s a bower, thick with flowers, heady with their scent, soft with their petals, their pinks and purples. And there sleeps Titania some time of the night, it’s one of her favourite places, lulled in these flowers with dancing and delight, music and revels for her lullaby, blossoms for her pillow. And there the snake throws her enamelled skin, weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in. The snake jars slightly; it’s meant to, there’s a snake in this paradise, Oberon himself, although the image of the tiny fairy dressing itself in the snake’s sloughed skin, bright and glowing as enamel, is a gorgeous one, and one the play’s periodic reminders of fairies’ size. And with the juice of this—this flower, as he looks at it, brandishes it, smells it even—I’ll streak her eyes, an imagined smearing, a disfiguring, but also as if Titania’s eyelids themselves are like petals, to be streaked with delicate colour. And make her full of hateful fantasies. The bower, so sensuously evoked, will become a place of nightmares, not dreams.