From Eight Glees expressly composed for ladies, Op. 4.

Lyrics: William Shakespeare

Now the hungry lion roars,
And howling wolves behold the moon;
While the heavy ploughman snores
All with weary task fordone.
Now the wasted brands do glow,
While the screech-owl, screeching loud,
Puts the wretch that lies in woe
In remembrance of a shroud.
Now it is the time of night
When the graves, all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite
In the churchway paths to glide.
And we fairies, that do run
By the triple Hecate's team,
From the presence of the sun,
Follow darkness as a dream.