The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve;
Lovers, to bed; ’tis almost fairy time.
I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn,
as much as we this night have overwatch’d.
This palpable-gross play hath well beguil’d
the heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed.
A fortnight hold we this solemnity,
in nightly revels, and new jollity.

Exeult.