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Pyr. No, in truth, sir, he should not. Deceiving me, is Thisby'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.
Enter THISBE, R. Thi. “Oh, 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.' Pyr. “I see a voice; now will I to the chink, To spy, an I can hear my Thisby's face. Thisby!'
Thi. "My love! thou art my love, I think.'
Pyr. "Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover's grace : And, like Limander, am I trusty still.'
Thi. And I like Helen, till the fates me kill.'
Thi. "Tide life, tide death, I come without delay.'
Wall. Thus have I, wall, my part discharged so; And, being done, thus wall away doth go.'
[Exeunt Wall, Pyramus, and Thisbe, L. The. Now is the mural down between the two neighbours.
Dem. No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to bear without warning.
Hip. This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard.
The. The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them.
Hip. It must be your imagination, then, and not theirs.
The. If we imagine no worse of them than they of themselves, they may pass for excellent men. Here come two noble beasts in, a moon and a lion.
Enter Lion and MOONSHINE, R. 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 1, one Snug, the joiner, am
The. A very gentle beast, and of a good conscience.
Dem. Not so, my lord, for his valour cannot carry his discretion ; and the fox carries the goose.
The. 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.
Moon. “This lantern doth the horned moon present.' Dem. He should have worn the horns on his head.
The. He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the circumference.
Moon. This lantern doth the horned moon present; Myself the man i'the moon doth seem to be.'
The. This is the greatest error of all the rest; the map should be put into the lantern; how is it, else, the man i'the moon ?
Dem. He dares not come there for candle ; for, you see, it is already in snuff. Hip. I am aweary of this moon—'would, he would
change! The. 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,
Lys. Proceed, moon.
Moon. All that have to say, is, to tell you, that the lantern is the moon-1, the man i'the moon; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush ; and this dog, my dog.
Dem. Why, all these should be in the lantern; for they are in the moon. But, silence, here comes Thisbe.
Enter THISBE, L. Thi. . This is old Ninny's tomb-where is my love ? Lion. « Oh' [The Lion roars.--Thisbe runs off, 1. Dem. Well roared, lion. The. Well run, Thisbe.
Hip. Well shone, moon. Truly, the moon shines with a good grace. The. Well moused, lion.
[Lion tears Thisbe's mantle, exit, L.
Dem. And so comes Pyramus.
Enter PYRAMUS, R.
thank thee, moon, for shining now so bright:
But stay-Oh spite !
But mark-poor knight,
Eyes, do you see?
How can it be?
Thy mantle good,
What, stain'd with blood ?
Oh, fates ! come, come,
Cut thread and thrum ;
Hip. Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.
Since lion, vile, hath here deflour'd my dear;
Come, tears, confound;
Out sword, and wound
Āy, that left pap,
Where heart doth hop.--
Now am I dead,
Now am I fled,
Tongue, lose thy light!
Moon, take thy flight!
[Dies.-Exit Moonshine, L. Dem. No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one.
Lys. Less than an ace, man; for he is dead; he is nothing.
The. With the help of a surgeon, he might yet recover, and prove an ass.
Hip. How chance moonshine is gone, before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover ?
The. She will find him by starlight. Here she comes : and her passion ends the play.
Enter Thisbe, L.
Hip. Methinks, she should not use a long one, for such a Pyramus. I hope she will be brief.
Dem. A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisbe, is the better. Lys. She hath spied him already with those sweet
Asleep, my love?
What, dead, my dove ?
Speak, speak! Quite dumb?
Dead, dead ? A tomb
These lily brows,
This cherry nose,
Are gone, are gone!
Lovers, make moan !
Oh, sisters three,
Come, come to me,.
Lay them in gore,
Tongue, not a word
Come, trusty sword,
And farewell, friends,
Thus Thisby ends :
[Dirs. The. Moonshine and lion are left to bury the dead. Dem. Ay, and wall, too.
Bot. No, I assure you; the wall is down that parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the epilogue or
to hear a Burgomask dance between two of our company.
The. 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 Burgomask : let your epilogue alone.
[A dance of Clowns. The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve : Lovers, to bed, 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outsleep the coming morn, As much as we this night have over-watch'd. This palpable-gross play hath well beguild The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed. A fortnight hold we this solempity, In nightly revels, and new jollity. [Exeunt, R.
SCENE II.-A Wood.
Enter Puck, L.
And the wolf behowls the moon ;
All with weary task fordone.
Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud,
In remembrance of a shroud.
That the graves, all gaping wide,
In the church-way paths to glide:
By the triple Hecat's team
Following darkness like a dream,