Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snowt, and Straveling.

Quin. Is all our Company here?

Bot. You were best to call them generally, Man by Man, according to the Scrip.

Quin. Here is the Scrowl of every Man's Name, which is thought fit through all Athens, to play in our Enterlude before the Duke and the Dutchess, on his Wedding-day at Night.

Bot. First, good Peter Quince, fay what the Play treats on; then read the Names of the Actors; and so grow on to a Point.

Quin. Marry, our Play is the most lamentable Comedy, and most cruel Death of Pyramus and Thisby.

Bot. A very good piece of Work I affure you, and a merry. Now good Peter Quince, call forth your Actors by the Scrowl. Masters spread your selves.

Quin. Answer as I call you. Nick Bottom the Wea

ver.

1

Bot. Ready: Name what part I am for, and proceed.
Quin. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus.
Bot. What is Pyramus, a Lover, or a Tyrant ?

Quin. A Lover that kills himself most gallantly for

Love.

Bot. That will ask some Tears in the true performing of it; if I do it, let the Audience look to their Eyes; I will condole in fome measure.' To the rest yet, my chief Humour is for a Tyrant; I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a Cat in, to make all split to raging Rocks, and shivering Shocks shall break the Locks of Prifon-Gates, and Phibbus's Carr shall shine from far, and make and mar the Foolish Fates. This was lofty. Now name the rest of the PlayThis is Ercles Veirl, a Tyrant's Vein; a Lover is more

ers.

condoling.

Quin. Francis Flute the Bellows-mender.

Flu. Here Peter Quince.

Quin. You must take Thisby on you.

Flu. What is Thisby, a wandring Knight?

Quin. It is the Lady that Pyramus must love.

Flu. Nay faith, let not me play a Woman, I have a Beard

coming.

Quin. That's all one, you shall play it in a Mask, and you may speak as small as you will.

Bot. And I may hide my Face, let me play Thisby too; I'll speak in a monstrous little Voice, Thisne, Thisne, ah Pyramus my Lover dear, thy Thisby dear, and Lady

dear.

Quin. No, no, you must play Pyramus, and Flute your Thisby.

Bot. Well, proceed.

Quin. Robin Starveling the Taylor.

Star. Here Peter Quince.

Quin. Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby's Mother.

Tom Snowt, the Tinker.

Snowt. Here Peter Quince.

Quin. You Pyramus's Father; my felf, Thisby's Father ; Snug, the Joiner, you the Lion's part; and I hope there is a Play fitted.

Snug. Have you the Lion's Part written? Pray you if it be give it me, for I am flow of Study.

Quin. You may do it Extempore, for it is nothing but Roaring.

Bot. Let me play the Lion too, I will roar, that I will do any Man's Heart good to hear me. I will roar, that I will make the Duke say, Let him roar again, let him roar again.

Quin. If you should do it too terribly, you would fright the Dutchess and the Ladies, that they would shriek, and that were enough to hang us all.

All. That would hang us every Mother's Son.

Bot. I grant you Friend, if that you should fright the Ladies out of their Wits, they would have no more Difcretion but to hang us; but I will aggravate my Voice so, that I will roar you as gently as any fucking Dove; I will roar and 'twere any Nightingal.

Quin. You can play no Part but Pyramus, for Pyramus is a sweet-fac'd Man, a proper Man as one shall fee in a Summer's Day; a most lovely Gentleman-like-mar, therefore you must needs play Pyramus.

Bot. Well, I will undertake it. What Beard were I best

to play it in?

1

Quin. Why, what you will.

Bot. I will discharge it in either your Straw-colour Beard, your Orange-tawny Beard, your Purple-in-grain Beard, or your French-colour'd Beard, your perfect yellow.

Quin. Some of your French-Crowns have no Hair at all, and then you will play bare-fac'd. But Masters here are your Parts, and I am to entreat you, request you, and defire you, to con them by to Morrow Night; and meet me in the Palace Wood, a Mile without the Town, by Moonlight, there we will Rehearse; for if we meet in the City, we shall be dog'd with Company, and our Devices known. In the mean time I will draw a Bill of Properties, such as our Play wants. I pray you fail not.

Bot. We will meet, and there we may rehearse more obscenely and courageously. Take pain, be perfect, adieu. Quin. At the Duke's Oak we meet.

Bot. Enough, hold or cut Bow-strings.

ACT II.

[Exeunt.

SCENE I.

Enter a Fairy at one Door, and Puck or Robin-goodfellow at another.

Puck: H

OW now Spirit, whither wander you?
Fai. Over Hill, over Dale, through Bush, through
Over Park, over Pale, through Flood, through Fire, (Briar,
I do wander every where, swifter than the Moon's Sphere;
And I ferve the Fairy Queen, to dew her Orbs upon the
(Green.

The Cowslips tall her Penfioners be,
In their gold Coats Spots you fee,
Those be Rubies, Fairy favours,
In those Freckles live their Savours :
I must go seek some Dew-Drops here,
And bang a Pearl in every Cowslip's Ear.
Farewel thou Lob of Spirits, I'll be gone,
Our Queen and all her Elves come here anon.
Puck. The King doth keep his Revels here to Night,

Take

Take heed the Queen come not within his Sight,
For Oberon is passing fell and wrath,
Because that the, as her Attendant, hath
A lovely Boy stol'n from an Indian King,
She never had so sweet a Changeling,
And jealous Oberon would have the Child
Knight of his Train, to trace the Forests wild;
But the per-force with-holds the loved Boy,
Crowns him with Flowers, and makes him all her Joy:
And now they never meet in Grove, or Green,
By Fountain clear, or spangled Star-light sheen,
But they do square, that all their Elves for fear
Creep into Acorn Cups, and hide them there.

Fai. Either I mistake your Shape and Making quite,
Or elfe you are that shrew'd and knavish Sprite
Call'd Robin-goodfellow. 'Are you not he,
That fright the Maidens of the Villageree,
Skim Milk, and sometimes labour in the Quern,
And bootless make the breathless Huswife chern
And fometime make the Drink to bear no Barme
Miss-lead 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?

Puck. Thou speak'st aright;
I am that merry Wanderer of the Night:
I jest to Oberon, and make him smile,
When I a fat and bean-fed Horse beguile.
Neighing in likeness like a filly Foal:
And fometimes lurk I in a Gossip's Bow!,
In very likeness of a roasted Crab,
And when the drinks, again her Lips I bob,
And on her whithered Dewlop pour the Ale.
The wisest Aunt telling the saddeft Tale,
Sometime for three-foot Stool mistaketh me,
Then flip I from her Bum, down topples she,
And Tailor cries, and falls into a Cough,

And then the whole Quire hold their Hips, and loffe,
And waxen in their Mirth, and neeze and swear,

A merrier Hour was never wasted there.

But room, Fairy, here comes Oberon.

Fai. And here my Mistress:

Would that we were gone.

Enter Oberon King of Fairies at one Door with his Train, and the Queen at another with hers.

Ob. I'll met by Moon-light,

Proud Titania.

Queen. What, jealous Oberon? Fairy, skip hence,
I have forsworn his Bed and Company.

Ob. Tarry rath Wanton, am not I thy Lord?
Queen. Then I must be thy Lady; but I know
When thou wast stoll'n away from Fairy Land,
And in the shape of Corin fate all Day,
Playing on Pipes of Corn, and verfing Love
To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here,
Come from the farthest steep of India?
But that forsooth the bouncing Amazon,
Your buskin'd Mistress, and your Warrior Love,
To Thefens must be wedded, and you come,
To give their Bed Joy and Profperity.

Ob. How can'st thou thus for shame, Titania,
Glance at my Credit with Hippolita,
Knowing I know thy Love to Theseus?
Didst thou not lead him through the glimmering Night
From Peregenia, whom he ravished,
And make him with fair Ægle break his faith,
With Ariadne, and Antiopa?

Queen. These are the Forgeries of Jealoufie,
And never fince the middle Summer's Spring,
Met we on Hill, in Dale, Foreft, or Mead,
By paved Fountain, or by rushy Brook,
Or in the beached Margent of the Sea,
To dance our Ringlets to the whistling Wind,
But with thy Brawls thou haft disturb'd our Sport.
Therefore the Winds piping to us in vain,
As in Revenge have fuck'd up from the Sea,
Contagious Fogs; which falling in the Land,
Hath every petty River made so proud,
That they have over-born their Continents.
The Ox hath therefore stretch'd his Yoak in vain
The Ploughman loft his Sweat, and the green Corn
Hath rotted, e'er his Youth attain'd a Beard

The