’Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.

More strange than true. I never may believe

These antique fables, nor these fairy toys.

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,

Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend

More than cool reason ever comprehends.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet

Are of imagination all compact:

One sees more devils than vast hell can hold;

That is the madman: the lover, all as frantic,

Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt:

The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;

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 some joy,

It comprehends some bringer of that joy.

Or in the night, imagining some fear,

How easy is a bush supposed a bear?

But all the story of the night told over,

And all their minds transfigur’d so together,

More witnesseth than fancy’s images,

And grows to something of great constancy;

But, howsoever, strange and admirable.

Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.

Joy, gentle friends, joy and fresh days of love

Accompany your hearts!

More than to us

Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed!

Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have,

To wear away this long age of three hours

Between our after-supper and bed-time?

Where is our usual manager of mirth?

What revels are in hand? Is there no play

To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?

Call Philostrate.

Here, mighty Theseus.

Say, what abridgment have you for this evening?

What masque? What music? How shall we beguile

The lazy time, if not with some delight?

There is a brief how many sports are ripe.

Make choice of which your Highness will see first.

By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.’

We’ll none of that. That have I told my love

In glory of my kinsman Hercules.

‘The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals,

Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage?’

That is an old device, and it was play’d

When I from Thebes came last a conqueror.

‘The thrice three Muses mourning for the death

Of learning, late deceas’d in beggary.’

That is some satire, keen and critical,

Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony.

‘A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus

And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.’

Merry and tragical? Tedious and brief?

That is hot ice and wondrous strange snow.

How shall we find the concord of this discord?

A play there is, my lord, some 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 saw rehears’d, I must confess,

Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears

The passion of loud laughter never shed.

What are they that do play it?

Hard-handed men that work in Athens here,

Which never labour’d in their minds till now;

And now have toil’d their unbreath’d memories

With this same play against your nuptial.

And we will hear it.

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 sport in their intents,

Extremely stretch’d and conn’d with cruel pain

To do you service.

I will hear that play;

For never anything can be amiss

When simpleness and duty tender it.

Go, bring them in: and take your places, ladies.

I love not to see wretchedness o’ercharged,

And duty in his service perishing.

Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing.

He says they can do nothing in this kind.

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

To greet me with premeditated welcomes;

Where I have seen them shiver and look pale,

Make periods in the midst of sentences,

Throttle their practis’d accent in their fears,

And, in conclusion, dumbly have broke off,

Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet,

Out of this silence yet I pick’d a welcome;

And in the modesty of fearful duty

I read as much as from the rattling tongue

Of saucy and audacious eloquence.

Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity

In least speak most to my capacity.

So please your grace, the Prologue is address’d.

Let him approach.

This fellow doth not stand upon points.

He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; he knows not the stop. A

good moral, my lord: it is not enough to speak, but to speak true.

Indeed he hath played on this prologue like a child on a recorder; a

sound, but not in government.

His speech was like a tangled chain; nothing impaired, but all

disordered. Who is next?

I wonder if the lion be to speak.

No wonder, my lord. One lion may, when many asses do.

In this same interlude it doth befall

That I, one Snout by name, present a wall:

And such a wall as I would have you think

That had in it a crannied hole or chink,

Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisbe,

Did whisper often very secretly.

This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone, doth show

That I am that same wall; the truth is so:

And this the cranny is, right and sinister,

Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper.

Would you desire lime and hair to speak better?

It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord.

Pyramus draws near the wall; silence.

O grim-look’d night! O night with hue so black!

O night, which ever art when day is not!

O night, O night, alack, alack, alack,

I fear my Thisbe’s promise is forgot!

And thou, O wall, O sweet, O lovely wall,

That stand’st between her father’s ground and mine;

Thou wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall,

Show me thy chink, to blink through with mine eyne.

The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again.

No, in truth, sir, he should not. ‘Deceiving me’ is Thisbe’s cue: she

is to enter now, and I am to spy her through the wall. You shall see it

will fall pat as I told you. Yonder she comes.

O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans,

For parting my fair Pyramus and me.

My cherry lips have often kiss’d thy stones,

Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee.

I see a voice; now will I to the chink,

To spy an I can hear my Thisbe’s face.

Thisbe?

My love thou art, my love I think.

Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover’s grace;

And like Limander am I trusty still.

And I like Helen, till the fates me kill.

Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true.

As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you.

O kiss me through the hole of this vile wall.

I kiss the wall’s hole, not your lips at all.

Wilt thou at Ninny’s tomb meet me straightway?

’Tide life, ’tide death, I come without delay.

Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so;

And, being done, thus Wall away doth go.

Now is the mural down between the two neighbours.

No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear without warning.

This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard.

The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if

imagination amend them.

It must be your imagination then, and not theirs.

If we imagine no worse of them than they of themselves, they may pass

for excellent men. Here come two noble beasts in, a man and a lion.

You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear

The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor,

May now, perchance, both quake and tremble here,

When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar.

Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am

A lion fell, nor else no lion’s dam;

For if I should as lion come in strife

Into this place, ’twere pity on my life.

A very gentle beast, and of a good conscience.

The very best at a beast, my lord, that e’er I saw.

This lion is a very fox for his valour.

True; and a goose for his discretion.

Not so, my lord, for his valour cannot carry his discretion, and the

fox carries the goose.

His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his valour; for the goose

carries not the fox. It is well; leave it to his discretion, and let us

listen to the moon.

This lanthorn doth the hornèd moon present.

He should have worn the horns on his head.

He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the

circumference.

This lanthorn doth the hornèd moon present;

Myself the man i’ the moon do seem to be.

This is the greatest error of all the rest; the man should be put into

the lantern. How is it else the man i’ the moon?

He dares not come there for the candle, for you see, it is already in

snuff.

I am aweary of this moon. Would he would change!

It appears by his small light of discretion that he is in the wane; but

yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time.

Proceed, Moon.

All that I have to say, is to tell you that the lantern is the moon; I

the man i’ the moon; this thorn-bush my thorn-bush; and this dog my

dog.

Why, all these should be in the lantern, for all these are in the moon.

But silence; here comes Thisbe.

This is old Ninny’s tomb. Where is my love?

Oh!

Well roared, Lion.

Well run, Thisbe.

Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines with a good grace.

Well moused, Lion.

And then came Pyramus.

And so the lion vanished.

Sweet Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams;

I thank thee, Moon, for shining now so bright;

For, by thy gracious golden, glittering gleams,

I trust to take of truest Thisbe sight.

But stay! O spite!

But mark, poor knight,

What dreadful dole is here!

Eyes, do you see?

How can it be?

O dainty duck! O dear!

Thy mantle good,

What, stained with blood?

Approach, ye Furies fell!

O Fates, come, come;

Cut thread and thrum;

Quail, rush, conclude, and quell!

This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a

man look sad.

Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.

O wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame,

Since lion vile hath here deflower’d my dear?

Which is—no, no—which was the fairest dame

That liv’d, that lov’d, that lik’d, that look’d with cheer.

Come, tears, confound!

Out, sword, and wound

The pap of Pyramus;

Ay, that left pap,

Where heart doth hop:

Thus die I, thus, thus, thus.

Now am I dead,

Now am I fled;

My soul is in the sky.

Tongue, lose thy light!

Moon, take thy flight!

Now die, die, die, die, die.

No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one.

Less than an ace, man; for he is dead, he is nothing.

With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover and prove an ass.

How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes back and finds her

lover?

She will find him by starlight.

Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus. I hope she

will be brief.

A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisbe, is the

better: he for a man, God warrant us; she for a woman, God bless us!

She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes.

And thus she means, _videlicet_—

Asleep, my love?

What, dead, my dove?

O Pyramus, arise,

Speak, speak. Quite dumb?

Dead, dead? A tomb

Must cover thy sweet eyes.

These lily lips,

This cherry nose,

These yellow cowslip cheeks,

Are gone, are gone!

Lovers, make moan;

His eyes were green as leeks.

O Sisters Three,

Come, come to me,

With hands as pale as milk;

Lay them in gore,

Since you have shore

With shears his thread of silk.

Tongue, not a word:

Come, trusty sword,

Come, blade, my breast imbrue;

And farewell, friends.

Thus Thisbe ends.

Adieu, adieu, adieu.

Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead.

Ay, and Wall too.

No, I assure you; the wall is down that parted their fathers. Will it

please you to see the epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance between

two of our company?

No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no excuse. Never excuse;

for when the players are all dead there need none to be blamed. Marry,

if he that writ it had played Pyramus, and hanged himself in Thisbe’s

garter, it would have been a fine tragedy; and so it is, truly; and

very notably discharged. But come, your Bergomask; let your epilogue

alone.

Now the hungry lion roars,

And the wolf behowls the moon;

Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,

All with weary task fordone.

Now the wasted brands do glow,

Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud,

Puts the wretch that lies in woe

In remembrance of a shroud.

Now it is the time of night

That the graves, all gaping wide,

Every one lets forth his sprite,

In the church-way paths to glide.

And we fairies, that do run

By the triple Hecate’s team

From the presence of the sun,

Following darkness like a dream,

Now are frolic; not a mouse

Shall disturb this hallow’d house.

I am sent with broom before,

To sweep the dust behind the door.

Through the house give glimmering light,

By the dead and drowsy fire.

Every elf and fairy sprite

Hop as light as bird from brier,

And this ditty after me,

Sing and dance it trippingly.

First rehearse your song by rote,

To each word a warbling note;

Hand in hand, with fairy grace,

Will we sing, and bless this place.

Now, until the break of day,

Through this house each fairy stray.

To the best bride-bed will we,

Which by us shall blessèd be;

And the issue there create

Ever shall be fortunate.

So shall all the couples three

Ever true in loving be;

And the blots of Nature’s hand

Shall not in their issue stand:

Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar,

Nor mark prodigious, such as are

Despised in nativity,

Shall upon their children be.

With this field-dew consecrate,

Every fairy take his gait,

And each several chamber bless,

Through this palace, with sweet peace;

And the owner of it blest.

Ever shall it in safety rest,

Trip away. Make no stay;

Meet me all by break of day.

If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended,

That you have but slumber’d here

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles, do not reprehend.

If you pardon, we will mend.

And, as I am an honest Puck,

If we have unearnèd luck

Now to ’scape the serpent’s tongue,

We will make amends ere long;

Else the Puck a liar call.

So, good night unto you all.

Give me your hands, if we be friends,

And Robin shall restore amends.