OBERON But we are spirits of another sort.
I with the morning’s love have oft made sport,
And like a forester the groves may tread
Even till the eastern gate, all fiery red,
Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams,
Turns into yellow gold his salt green streams.
But notwithstanding, haste, make no delay.
We may effect this business yet ere day. [Exit.] (3.2.388-395)
Oberon reassures Puck with surprisingly gentle lyricism that no, we’re not like the ghosts or the unquiet souls who fear the light, who must be hidden away before the light of dawn: but we are spirits of another sort. There’s no need to be afraid, of daylight or of ghosts. He amplifies his claim with a sensual evocation of a sunrise landscape, in which he is gloriously at home: I with the morning’s love have oft made sport—dallied with the rosy-fingered Aurora, and mocked her other lovers; I’m often up this early/late—and like a forester the groves may tread, because these are my woods, I can wander in them, walk their paths and boundaries, even till the eastern gate, all fiery red, opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams, turns into yellow gold his salt green streams. I’m here until the sun rises out of the ocean in a great glowing arch, spilling, streaking a golden path across the waves, as if I could walk into the sun itself. Oberon, in anticipation, makes the sunrise, and everyone sees the greatest sunrises of their lives in their mind’s eye… But notwithstanding, haste, make no delay. YOU can’t stick around to see the sunrise, Mr Puck: we may effect this business yet ere day. Still a good chance that we can get this all wound up before sunrise! (This little exchange sounds like an anticipation, just for a moment, of Prospero and Ariel.)
