Enter [PUCK with a broom.]

PUCK  Now the hungry lion roars

And the wolf behowls the moon,

Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,

All with weary task fordone.

Now the wasted brands do glow,

Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud,

Puts the wretch that lies in woe

In remembrance of a shroud.

Now it is the time of night

That the graves, all gaping wide,

Every one lets forth his sprite

In the churchway paths to glide.      (5.1.361-372)

To a modern ear, the beginning of Puck’s speech might have a particularly fairy-story—or picture-book—quality, just scary enough a bedtime story to thrill, in the hope of reassurance and comfort (it gets pretty scary though!) And the repeated time is now, the now of the perpetual theatrical present as much as that of the witching hour, which it is in the world of the play, as all these things are possible, all at once, and now: now the hungry lion roars—not at all like cuddly cowardly Snug—and the wolf behowls the moon, properly disquieting, eerie. Then a swerve into the more homely, and the more recognisable (perhaps nostalgically pastoral, too, for an urban audience, or an elite one): whilst the heavy ploughman snores, all with weary task fordone. He’s dead to the world, utterly worn out by his labours. (A country labourer, not a city craftsman.) Then the tension builds: now the wasted brands do glow—the burned-down logs in the fire seem to kindle again—whilst the screech owl, screeching loud—another sound-effect to join the howl of the wolf, the roar of the lion (don’t get too comfy beside those glowing embers) puts the wretch that lies in woe in remembrance of a shroud. That owl? it’s a death-omen, especially if you’re lying awake, sick, troubled, suffering. But there’s more: now it is the time of night that the graves, all gaping wide, every one lets forth his sprite in the church way paths to glide. Graves will open and the dead will walk; the churchyard will be full of ghosts… It’s that time of night, yes.