Lovers flee into an enchanted wood; fairies meddle; a weaver gets an ass's head. Shakespeare wrote this around 1595, and it contains some of his most beautiful poetry alongside some of his broadest comedy. The layers of illusion, dream within dream within play, make it his most metatheatrical work before The Tempest. It is frequently performed, easily enjoyed, and bottomless. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet are of imagination all compact. The play demonstrates rather than argues this.