Quin. Let us hear, fweet Bottom. Bot. Not a Word of me; all I will tell you, is that the Duke hath dined. Get your Apparel together, good Strings to your Beards, new Ribbons to your Pumps, meet prefently at the Palace, every Man look o'er his Part; for the fhort and the long is, our Play is preferred: In any cafe let Thisby have clean Linnen; and let not him that plays the Lion pare his Nails, for they fhall hang out for the Lion's Claws; and moft dear Actors, eat no Onions, nor Garlick, for we are to utter sweet Breath; and I do not doubt to hear them fay, it is a sweet Comedy. No more Words; away, go a[Exeunt

way.

A CT V. SCENE I.

Enter Thefeus, Hippolita, Egeus and his Lords.

Hip.IS ftrange, my Thefeus, that these Lovers speak of.
Thef. More ftrange than true. I never may believe

Thefe Antick Fables, nor thefe Fairy Toys;
Lovers and Madmen have fuch feething Brains,
Such fhaping Phantasies, that apprehend more
Than cool Reafon ever comprehends.

The Lunatick, the Lover, and the Poet,
Are of Imagination all compact:

One fees more Devils than vaft Hell can hold;

That is the Madman. The Lover, all as frantick,

Sees Helen's Beauty in a Brow of Egypt.

The Poet's Eye in a fine Frenzy rowling,

Doth glance from Heav'n to Earth, from Earth to Heav'n

And as Imagination bodies forth the Forms of Things
Unknown; the Poet's Pen turns them to Shapes,

And gives to Airy Nothing a local Habitation,
And a Name. Such Tricks hath strong Imagination,
That if it would but apprehend fome Joy.
It comprehends fome Bringer of that Joy:
Or in the Night, imagining fome Fear,
How eafie is a Bufh fuppos'd a Bear?

Hip. But all the Story of the Night told over,
And all their Minds transfigur'd fo together,
More witneffeth than Fancies Images,

And grows to fomething of great Conftancy;
But, howfoever, ftrange and admirable.

Enter Lyfander, Demetrius, Hermia, and

Helena.

Thef. Here come the Lovers, full of Joy and Mirth. Joy, gentle Friends, Joy and fresh days of Love Accompany your Hearts.

Lys. More than to us,

Wait on your Royal Walks, your Board, your Bed.
Thef. Come now, what Masks, what Dances fhall we
have,

To wear away this long Age of three Hours,
Between our after-fupper and Bed-time?
Where is our ufual manager of Mirth?
What Revels are in hand? Is there no Play
To cafe the Anguish of a torturing Hour?
Call Egeus.

Ege. Here, mighty Thefeus.

Thef. Say, what Abridgment have you for this Evening? What Mask? What Mufick? How fhall we beguile

The lazy time, if not with fome Delight?

Ege. There is a Brief how many Sports are rife: Make choice of which your Highness will fee firft. Lyf. The Battel with the Centaur, to be fung By an Athenian Eunuch, to the Harp.

Thef. We'll none of that. That have I told my Love, In glory of my Kinfman Hercules.

Lyf. The Riot of the tipfie Bachanals,

Tearing the Thracian Singer in their Rage.

Thef. That is an old Device, and it was plaid

When I from Thebes came laft a Conqueror.

Lyf. The thrice three Mufts, mourning for the Death of Learning, late deceas'd in Beggary.

Thef. That is fome Satyr keen and critical, Not forting with a Nuptial Ceremony.

Lyf. A tedious brief Scene of young Pyramus, And his Love Thisby; very tragical Mirth.

Thef.

Thef. Merry and Tragical? Tedious and Brief? That is, hot Ice, and wondrous ftrange Snow. How shall we find the Concord of this Difcord?

Ege. A Play there is, my Lord, fome ten Words long, Which is as brief as I have known a Play;

But by ten Words, my Lord, it is too long.
Which makes it tedious: For in all the Play
There is not one Word apt, one Player fitted.
And Tragical, my Noble Lord, it is:
For Pyramus therein doth kill himself.
Which when I faw rehears'd, I must confefs
Made mine Eyes water; but more merry Tears
The paffion of loud Laughter never shed.
Thef. What are they that do play it?

Ege. Hard-handed Men, that work in Athens here,
Which never labour'd in their Minds till now;
And now have toiled their unbreathed Memories
With this fame Play, against your Nuptials,

Thef. And we will hear it.

Ege. No, my Noble Lord, it is not for you. I have heard
It over, and it is nothing, nothing in the World,
Unless you can find fport in their Intents,

Extremely ftretch'd, and conn'd with cruel Pain,
To do you Service.

Thef. I will hear that Play: For never any thing
Can be amifs, when Simplenefs and Duty tender it.
Go bring them in, and take your Places, Ladies.
Hip. I love not to fee Wretchedness o'ercharg'd,
And Duty in his Service perishing.

Thef. Why, gentle Sweet, you fhall fee no fuch thing. Hip. He fays they can do nothing in this kind.

Thef. The kinder we, to give them Thanks for nothing. Our Sport shall be, to take what they mistake;

And what poor Duty cannot do, noble Respect
Takes it in Might, not Merit.

Where I have come, great Clerks have purposed

Το

greet me with premeditated Welcomes; Where I have feen them fhiver, and look pale, Make Periods in the midst of Sentences, Throttle their practis'd Accent in their Fears, VOL. II.

E

And

And in conclufion, dumbly have broke off,
Not paying me a Welcome. Truft me, Sweet,
Out of this Silence yet I pick'd á Welcome:
And in the modefty of fearful Duty,

I read as much, as from the ratling Tongue
Of fawcy and audacious Eloquence.
Love therefore, and Tongue-tide Simplicity,
In leaft, speak moft, to my Capacity.

Ege. So pleafe your Grace, the Prologue is addrest.
Thef. Let him approach.

Enter Quince for the Prologue.

[Flor. Tram. Pro. If we offend, it is with our good will. That you fhould think we come not to offend, But with good will. To fhew our fimple Skill, That is the true beginning of our end. Confider then, we come but in defpight. We do not come as minding to content you, Our true intent is. All for your delight, We are not here. That you fhould here repent you, The Actors are at hand; and by their Show,

You fhall know all, that you are like to know.

Thef. This Fellow doth not ftand upon his Points. Lyf. He hath rid his Prologue, like a rough Colt; he knows not the ftop. A good Moral, my Lord. It is not enough to fpeak, but to fpeak true.

Hip. Indeed he hath play'd on his Prologue, like a Child on the Recorder; a found, but not in government.

Thef. His Speech was like a tangled Chain; nothing impair'd, but all diforder'd. Who is the next?

Tawyer with a Trumpet before them.

Enter Pyramus, and Thisby, Wall, Moon-fhine,
and Lion.

Pro. Gentles, perchance you wonder at this Show,
But wonder on, 'till Truth make all things plain.
This Man is Pyramus, if you would know;
This beauteous Lady, Thisby is certain.

This Man with Lime and Rough caft, doth prefent
Wal', the vile Wall, which did thefe Lovers funder:
And through Wall's Chink, poor Souls, they are content
To whisper. At the which, let no Man wonder..

This

This Man with Lanthorn. Dog, and Bush of Thorn,
Prefenteth Moon-fhine: For, if you will know,
By Moon-fhine did thefe Lovers think no scorn
To meet at Ninus Tomb, there, there to woo.
This grizly Beaft, which Lion hight by Name,
The trufty Thisby, coming firft by Night,
Did fcare away, or rather did affright:
And as fhe fled, her Mantle fhe did fall;
Which Lion vile with bloody Mouth did ftais.
Anon comes Pyramus, fweet Youth and tall,
And finds his gentle Thisby's Mantle slain;
Whereat, with Blade, with bloody blameful Blade,
He bravely broach'd his boiling bloody Breaft,
And Thisby, tarrying in the Mulberry Shade,
His Dagger drew, and died. For all the reft,
Let Lyon, Moon-fbine, Wall, and Lovers twain,
At large difcourfe, while here they do remain.

[Exeunt all but Wall.

Thef. I wonder if the Lion be to speak. Dem. No wonder, my Lord; one Lion may, when many Affes do.

Wall. In this fame Interlude it doth befal,

That I, one Snowt by name, present a Wall:
And fuch a Wall, as I would have you think,
That had in it a crannied Hole or, Chink;
Through which the Lovers, Pyramus and Thisby,
Did whisper often very fecretly. i ory

This Loam, this Rough-caft, and this Stone doth fhew,
That I am that fame Wall; the truth is fo.

And this the Cranny is, right and sinister,

Through which the fearful Lovers are to whisper.

Thef. Would you defire Lime and Hair to speak better? Dem. It is the wittieft Partition that ever I heard difcourfe, my Lord.

Thef. Pyramus draws near the Wall: Silence.

Enter Pyramus.

Fyr. O grim look'd Night! O Night with hue fo black! O Night, which ever art when Day is not!

O Night, O Night, alack, alack, alack,

I fear my Thisby's Promife is forgot.