A Midsummer Night's Dream Part 13

Du. It appeares by his smal light of discretion, that he is in the wane: but yet in courtesie, in all reason, we must stay the time

Lys. Proceed Moone

Moon. All that I haue to say, is to tell you, that the Lanthorne is the Moone; I, the man in the Moone; this thorne bush; my thorne bush; and this dog, my dog

Dem. Why all these should be in the Lanthorne: for they are in the Moone. But silence, heere comes Thisby.

Enter Thisby.

This. This is old Ninnies tombe: where is my loue?

Lyon. Oh.

The Lion roares, Thisby runs off.

Dem. Well roar'd Lion

Du. Well run Thisby

Dut. Well shone Moone.

Truly the Moone s.h.i.+nes with a good grace

Du. Wel mouz'd Lion

Dem. And then came Piramus

Lys. And so the Lion vanisht.

Enter Piramus.

Pyr. Sweet Moone, I thank thee for thy sunny beames, I thanke thee Moone, for s.h.i.+ning now so bright: For by thy gracious, golden, glittering beames, I trust to taste of truest Thisbies sight.

But stay: O spight! but marke, poore Knight, What dreadful dole is heere?

Eyes do you see! How can it be!

O dainty Ducke: O Deere!

Thy mantle good; what staind with blood!

Approch you furies fell: O Fates! come, come: Cut thred and thrum, Quaile, crush, conclude, and quell

Du. This pa.s.sion, and the death of a deare friend, Would go neere to make a man looke sad

Dut. Beshrew my heart, but I pittie the man

Pir. O wherefore Nature, did'st thou Lions frame?

Since lion vilde hath heere deflour'd my deere: Which is: no, no, which was the fairest Dame That liu'd, that lou'd, that like'd, that look'd with cheere.

Come teares, confound: Out sword, and wound The pap of Piramus: I, that left pap, where heart doth hop; Thus dye I, thus, thus, thus.

Now am I dead, now am I fled, my soule is in the sky, Tongue lose thy light, Moone take thy flight, Now dye, dye, dye, dye, dye

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

Lis. Lesse then an ace man. For he is dead, he is nothing

Du. With the helpe of a Surgeon, he might yet recouer, and proue an a.s.se

Dut. How chance Moone-s.h.i.+ne is gone before?

Thisby comes backe, and findes her Louer.

Enter Thisby.

Duke. She wil finde him by starre-light.

Heere she comes, and her pa.s.sion ends the play

Dut. Me thinkes shee should not vse a long one for such a Piramus: I hope she will be breefe

Dem. A Moth wil turne the ballance, which Piramus which Thisby is the better

Lys. She hath spyed him already, with those sweete eyes

Dem. And thus she meanes, videlicit

This. Asleepe my Loue? What, dead my Doue?

O Piramus arise: Speake, speake. Quite dumbe? Dead, dead? A tombe Must couer thy sweet eyes.

These Lilly Lips, this cherry nose, These yellow Cowslip cheekes Are gone, are gone: Louers make mone: His eyes were greene as Leekes.

O Sisters three, come, come to mee, With hands as pale as Milke, Lay them in gore, since you haue sh.o.r.e with sheeres, his thred of silke.

Tongue not a word: Come trusty sword: Come blade, my brest imbrue: And farwell friends, thus Thisbie ends; Adieu, adieu, adieu

Duk. Moone-s.h.i.+ne & Lion are left to burie the dead

Deme. I, and Wall too

Bot. No, I a.s.sure you, the wall is downe, that parted their Fathers. Will it please you to see the Epilogue, or to heare a Bergomask dance, betweene two of our company?

Duk. No Epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no excuse. Neuer excuse; for when the plaiers are all dead, there need none to be blamed. Marry, if hee that writ it had plaid Piramus, and hung himselfe in Thisbies garter, it would haue beene a fine Tragedy: and so it is truely, and very notably discharg'd. but come, your Burgomaske; let your Epilogue alone.

The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelue.

Louers to bed, 'tis almost Fairy time.

I feare we shall out-sleepe the comming morne, As much as we this night haue ouer-watcht.

This palpable grosse play hath well beguil'd The heauy gate of night. Sweet friends to bed.

A fortnight hold we this solemnity.

In nightly Reuels; and new iollitie.

Exeunt.

Enter Pucke.

Puck. Now the hungry Lyons rores, And the Wolfe beholds the Moone: Whilest the heauy ploughman snores, All with weary taske fore-done.

Now the wasted brands doe glow, Whil'st the scritch-owle, scritching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe, In remembrance of a shrowd.

Now it is the time of night, That the graues, all gaping wide, Euery one lets forth his spright, In the Church-way paths to glide, And we Fairies, that do runne, By the triple Hecates teame, From the presence of the Sunne, Following darkenesse like a dreame, Now are frollicke; not a Mouse Shall disturbe this hallowed house.

I am sent with broome before, To sweep the dust behinde the doore.

Enter King and Queene of Fairies, with their traine.

Ob. Through the house giue glimmering light, By the dead and drowsie fier, Euerie Elfe and Fairie spright, Hop as light as bird from brier, And this Ditty after me, sing and dance it trippinglie, t.i.ta. First rehea.r.s.e this song by roate, To each word a warbling note.

Hand in hand, with Fairie grace, Will we sing and blesse this place.

The Song.

Now vntill the breake of day, Through this house each Fairy stray.