[Oberon advances.] Enter PUCK.
OBERON Welcome, good Robin. Seest thou this sweet sight?
Her dotage now I do begin to pity.
For meeting her of late behind the wood,
Seeking sweet favours for this hateful fool,
I did upbraid her, and fall out with her;
For she his hairy temples then had rounded
With coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers,
And that same dew, which sometime on the buds
Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls,
Stood now within the pretty flowerets’ eyes
Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail. (4.1.45-55)
Puck’s back, which is just as well, as Oberon needs to fill someone in as to what else has been going on. Welcome, good Robin (he’s back being nice to Puck). Seest thou this sweet sight? And it CAN be sweet, Oberon doesn’t have to be being sarcastic. Her dotage now I do begin to pity; starting to feel just ever so slightly guilty, that she’s been making such a fool of herself? maybe a little? For meeting her of late behind the wood, seeking sweet favours for this hateful fool (steady on Oberon, Bottom isn’t hateful; oh, Oberon’s JEALOUS!) I ran into her just before, picking flowers, whatEVER, I did upbraid her, and fall out with her. We had a fight. Another fight. Couldn’t help myself. Because she looked HAPPY, and he looked happy, donkey guy, and she’d made him a crown of flowers, like she used to … never mind. It looked so, SO beautiful: for she his hairy temples then had rounded (you’ll at least concede he’s ridiculous, ugly even? that I’m … yeah? I’ve still got it? don’t know why I’m asking you, Puck?) with coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers, and that same dew, which sometime on the buds was wont to swell like round and orient pearls—and the flowers were covered with drops of dew, just so, so perfect, like jewels, and those dewdrops stood now within the pretty flowerets’ eyes like tears that did their own disgrace bewail. It was as if the flowers were weeping. Does Oberon imagine the flowers weeping for Titania’s folly, her humiliation? Or is it a projection of his own regret, filtered—whatever his jealousies, his pettiness—through his characteristically beautiful evocation of the natural world?
