Either I mistake your shape and making quite, or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow. Are not you he that frights the maidens of the villagers, skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern and bootless make the breathless housewife churn, and sometime make the drink to bear no barm, mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm? Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck, you do their work, and they shall have good luck. Are not you he?

Ready!

Where shall we go?