Are you haunt our hallowed greene, none but Fayries here are seene, downe and sleepe, wake and weepe: pinch him blacke, and pinch him blew, that seekes to steale a Lover true. When you come to hear us sing or to treade our Fayrie ring, pinch him blacke, and pinch him blew, O thus our nayles shall handle you.
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