To whisper; at the which let no man wonder. "This man, with lantern, dog, and bush of thorn, 'Presenteth moon-shine: for, if you will know, "By moon-shine did these lovers think no scorn 'To meet at Ninus' tomb, there, there to woo. 'This grisly beast, which by name lion hight, "The trusty Thisby, coming first by night, Did scare away, or rather did affright: "And, as she fled, her mantle she did fall; "Which lion vile with bloody mouth did stain: 'Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth, and tall,

And finds his trusty Thisby's mantle slain: "Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade, 'He bravely broach'd his boiling bloody breast; And, Thisby tarrying in mulberry shade,

'His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest, "Let Lion, Moon-shine, Wall, and lovers twain, 'At large discourse, while here they do remain. [Exeunt Prol. This. Lion, and Moonshine.

The. I wonder, if the lion be to speak. Dem. No wonder, my lord: one lion may, when many asses do.

Wall. In this same interlude, it doth befal, 'That I, one Snout by name, present a wall:

And such a wall, as I would have you think, "That had in it a cranny'd hole, or chink, "Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby, '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.' The. Would you desire lime and hair to speak better?

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

The. Pyramus draws near the wall: silence!
Enter Pyramus.

Pyr. 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 Thisby'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. [Wall holds up his fingers. "Thanks, courteous wall: Jove shield thee well for this!

'But what see I? No Thisby do I see.

O wicked wall, through which I see no bliss; 'Curst be thy stones for thus deceiving me! The. The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again.

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.

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!'

This. '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.'

This. And I like Helen, till the fates me kill.'
Pyr. 'Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true.'
This. As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you.'
Pyr. 'O, kiss me through the hole of this vile wall?
This. 'I kiss the wall's hole, not your lips at all.'
Pyr. Wilt thou at Ninny's tomb meet me straight
way?"

This. '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. The. Now is the mural down between the two neighbours.

Dem. No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wil ful to hear 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.

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 of my life.'

The. A very gentle beast, and of a good conscience. Dem. The very best at a beast, my lord, that e'er I

saw.

Lys. This lion is a very fox for his valour. The. True; and a goose for his discretion. 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 pre

sent:

Dem. He should have worn the horns on his head. within the circumference. The. He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible

Moon. This lantern doth the horned moon present; 'Myself the man i' th' moon do seem to be.'

The. This is the greatest error of all the rest; the man should be put into the lantern: How is it else the man i' th' moon?

Dem. He dares not come there for the candle; for, you see, it is already in snuff.

Hip. I am a weary of this moon: Would, he would

lantern is the moon; I, the man in the moon; this thornbush, 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.

This. "This is old Ninny's Tomb: Where is my love?" Lion. 'Oh- [The Lion roars.—Thisbe runs off.

Dem. Well roared, lion.

The. Well run, Thisbe.

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

The. Well moused, lion.

[The Lion tears Thisbe's mantle, and exit.

Dem. And so comes Pyramus.

Lys. And then the moon vanishes.

Enter Pyramus.

Pyr. 'Sweet moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams;
'I thank thee, moon, for shining now so bright:
For, by thy gracious, golden, glittering streams,
'I trust to taste of truest Thisby's 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, stain'd with blood?
'Approach, ye furies fell!

'O fates! come, come;
'Cut thread and thrum;

'Quail, crush, conclude, and quell!'

This. 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 brows,

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 Thisby ends: 'Adieu, adieu, adieu.'

[Dies.

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 Bergomask 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

Hip. Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.
Pyr. 'O, wherefore, nature, didst thou lions frame?

*Since lion vile hath here deflour'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.' [Dies. Ex. Moonsh. 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 star-light.-Here she comes, and her passion ends the play.

But

he that writ it, had play'd Pyramus, and hanged himself in Thisbe's garter, it would have been a fine trag. edy: and so it is, truly; and very notably discharged. come, your Bergomask: let your epilogue alone. [Here a dance of Clowns The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve:Lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time.

I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn,
As much as we this night have overwatch'd.
This palpable-gross play hath well beguil'd
The heavy gait of night.-Sweet friends, to bed.
A fortnight hold we this solemnity,
In nightly revels, and new jollity.

SCENE II-Enter Puck.
Puck. 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,

[Exeunt.

Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching 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 Hecat's team,
From the presence of the sun,
Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolie; not a mouse
Shall disturb this hallow'd house:
I am sent, with broom, before,
To sweep the dust behind the door.

Enter Oberon and Titania, with their train.

O!. Through this 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.

Tita. First, rehearse the song by rote: To each word a warbling note, Hand in hand, with fairy grace, Will we sing, and bless this place.

SONG, AND DANCE.

Ob. Now, until the break of day,
Through this house each fairy stray.
To the best bride-bed will we,
Which by us shall blessed 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:
E'er shall it in safety rest,

And the owner of it blest.
Trip away;

Make no stay;
Meet me all by break of day.

[Exe. Ober. Tita. and train.

Puck. 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'm an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck

Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,

We will make amends ere long:

Else the Puck a liar call.

Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side, Would scatter all her spices on the stream;

IN

arino, and Salanio. Antonio.

sooth, I know not why I am so sad;

It wearies me; you say, it wearies you;
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What staff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn;

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,
That I have much ado to know myself.

Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean;
There, where your argosies with portly sail,-
Like signiors and rich burghers of the flood,
Or, as it were the pageants of the sea,-
Do overpeer the petty traffickers,
That curt'sy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Salan. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,
The better part of my affections would
Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still
Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind;
Peering in maps, for ports, and piers, and roads;
And every object that might make me fear
Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt,
Would make me sad.

Salan. My wind, cooling my broth, Would blow me to an ague, when I thought What harm a wind too great might do at sea. I should not see the sandy hour-glass run, But I should think of shallows and of flats; And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand, Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs, To kiss her burial. Should I go to church, And see the holy edifice of stone,

And not bethink rue straight of dangerous rocks?

And, in a word, but even now worth this,
And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought
To think on this; and shall I lack the thought,
That such a thing, bechane'd, would make me sad?
But, tell not me; I know, Antonio

Is sad to think upon his merchandize.

Ant. Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it, My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate Upon the fortune of this present year: Therefore, my merchandize makes me not sad. Salan. Why then you are in love. Ant.

Fie, fie!

Salan. Not in love neither? Then let's say, you are sad,

Because you are not merry: and 'twere as easy
For you, to laugh, and leap, and say, you are merry,
Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus,
Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time:
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes,
And laugh, like parrots, at a bag-piper;
And other of such vinegar-aspect,

That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile,
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano.
Salan. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kins-

man,

Gratiano, and Lorenzo: Fare you well;
We leave you now with better company.
Salar. I would have staid till I had made you merry
If worthier friends had not prevented me.

Ant. Your worth is very dear in my regard.

I take it, your own business calls on you,
And you embrace the occasion to depart.
Salar. Good-morrow, my good lords.

Say, when?

You grow exceeding strange: Must it be so? Salar. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours. [Exe. Salarino and Salanio.

Lor. My lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio,

We two will leave you: but, at dinner time,

I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.
Bass. I will not fail you.

Gra. You look not well, signior Antonio;
You have too much respect upon the world:
They lose it, that do buy it with much care.
Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd.

Ant. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiane; A stage, where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one.

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come;
And let my liver rather heat with wine,

Than my
heart cool with mortifying groans.
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?

Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio,-
I love thee, and it is my love that speaks ;-
There are a sort of men, whose visages
Do cream and mantle, like a standing pond;
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be drest in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, I am sir Oracle,
And, when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!
O, my Antonio, I do know of these,
That therefore only are reputed wise,

For saying nothing; who, I am very sure,

If they should speak, would almost dainn those ears,
Which, hearing them, would call their brothers, fools.
I'll tell thee more of this another time:
But fish not, with this melancholy bait,
For this fool's gudgeon, this opinion.-
Come, good Lorenzo:-Fare ye well, a while;
I'll end my exhortation after dinner.

Lor. Well, we will leave you then till dinner time:
I must be one of these same dumb wise men,
For Gratiano never lets me speak.

Gra. Well, keep me company but two years more, Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. Ant. Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear. Gra. Thanks, i'faith; for silence is only commend

able

In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible.
[Exeunt Gra. and Loren.
Ant. Is that any thing now?
Bass. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing,
more than any man in all Venice: His reasons are as
two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff; you
shall seek all day ere you find them; and, when you
have them, they are not worth the search.

Ant. Well; tell me now, what lady is this same
To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,*
That you to-day promis'd to tell me of?

Bass. "Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,
How much I have disabled mine estate,
By something showing a more swelling port
Than my faint means would grant continuance:
Nor do I now make moan to be abridg'd
From such a noble rate; but my chief care
Is, to come fairly off from the great debts,
Wherein my time, something too prodigal,

I owe the most, in money, and in love;
And from your love I have a warranty
To unburthen all my plots, and purposes,
How to get clear of all the debts I owe.

Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it;
And, if it stand, as you yourself still do,
Within the eye of honour, be assur'd,

My purse, my person, my extremest means,
Lie all unlock'd to your occasions.

Bass. In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft,
I shot his fellow of the self-same flight
The self-same way, with more advised watch,
To find the other forth; and by advent ring both,
I oft found both: I urge this childhood proof,
Because what follows is pure innocence.

I owe you much; and, like a wilful youth,
That which I owe is lost but if you please
To shoot another arrow that self way
Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,
As I will watch the aim, or to find both,
Or bring your latter hazard back again,
And thankfully rest debtor for the first.

Ant. You know me well; and herein spend but time,
To wind about my love with circumstance;
And, out of doubt, you do me now more wrong,
In making question of my uttermost,
Than if you had made waste of all I have:
Then do but say to me what I should do,
That in your knowledge may by me be done,
And I am prest unto it: therefore, speak.

Bass. In Belmont is a lady richly left,
And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,
Of wondrous virtues; sometimes from her eyes
I did receive fair speechless messages:
Her name is Portia ; nothing undervalued
To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia.
Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth;
For the four winds blow in from every coast
Renowned suitors: and her sunny locks
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece;
Which makes her seat of Belmont, Colchos' strand,
And many Jasons come in quest of her.

O my Antonio, had I but the means
To hold a rival place with one of them,

I have a mind presages me such thrift,
That I should questionless be fortunate.

Ant. Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea; Nor have I money, nor commodity

To raise a present sum: therefore go forth,
Try what my credit can in Venice do ;
That shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost,
To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia.
Go, presently inquire, and so will I,
Where money is; and I no question make,
To have it of my trust, or for my sake.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.-Belmont. A Room in Portia's House. Enter Portia and Nerissa.

Por. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world.

Ner. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are: And, yet, for aught I see, they are as sick, that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing: It is no mean happiness therefore, to be seated in the mean; superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but compe tency lives longer.

Por. Good sentences, and well pronounced.
Ner. They would be better, if well followed.