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 Thisbe's sight.
But stay. O spight!
But mark; poor Knight
What dreadful Dole is here?
Eyes d'ye see,
How can it be!

O dainty Duck! O dear!
Thy Mantle good! what, stain'd with Blood?

Approach, you Furies fell:
O Fates! come, come,
Cut Thread and Thrum,
Quail, crush, conclude, and quell.

Gam.

This Passion, and the Death of a dear Friend, wou'd go near to make a Man look sad.

Crot.

Beshrew my Heart, but I pity the Man.

Gam.

If this won't move the Ladies, poor Pyramus will take pains to little purpose.

Sem.

If this won't fetch a Subscription, I'll never pretend to Compose Opera, or Mask again, while I live.

Pyr.
O wherefore, Nature, didst thou Lions frame?
Since Lion wild 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 Chear.
Come Tears, confound: out Sword, and wound
The Pap of Pyramus.
Ay, that left Pap, where Heart doth hop:
As Bird doth hop in Cage.
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 your flight,
Now die, die, die, die.

Gam.

So, there's an end of Pyramus.

Crot.

I'll assure you the Man died well, like a Hero in an Italian Opera, to very good Time and Tune.

Gam.

But, how chance the Moon-shine is gone, before Thisbe comes back, and finds her Lover?

Sem.

She will find him by Star-light; here she comes, and her Passion ends the Mask.

Crot.

Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus. I hope She'll be brief.

Sem.

A Moth will turn the Ballance, which Pyramus, which Thisbe is the better; Silence, she has spy'd him already.