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 Lilly Lips,
This Cherry Nose,
These yellow Cowslip Cheeks
Are gone, are gone:
Lovers make Moan:
His Eyes are green as Leeks.
O Sisters Three,
Come, come to me,
With Hands as pale as Milk:
Lay them in gone,
Since you have shore
With Sheers, this Thread of Silk.
Tongue, not a Word:
Come, trusty Sword;
Come, Blade, my Breast imbrue;
Now farewell Friends,
Thus Thisbe ends.
Adieu, adieu, adieu.

Gam.

Moon-shine and Lion are left to bury the Dead.

Cro.

Ay, and Wall too.

Sem.

No, I assure you, the Wall is down that parted their Fathers Gardens. Now will it please you to have the Epilogue, or a Dance?

Crot.

No Epilogue, I beseech you; the Mask needs no Excuse; for when the Performers are all dead, there need none to be blam'd; yet I think, if

he that writ it had done Pyramus, and hang'd himself in Thisbe's Garters, it would have been a much better Performance.

Gam.

Pray Mr. Semibreve, who is to Perform the Epilogue?

Sem.
Pyramus and Thisbe.

Gam.

Pyramus and Thisbe—they are both dead.

Sem.

Pho, pho, d'ye think the Audience suppose them to be Dead? that's a Jest indeed.—I think it is better to make 'em rise and sing the Epilogue, and go off by themselves, than to have Three or Four dirty Property Fellows come and carry 'em off.

Crot.

'Tis very well, Mr. Semibreve; pray let us have your Epilogue in this New manner.

Sem.

Pyramus, pray rise and sing the Epilogue.

EPILOGUE.

Pyr.
What shall I say—I'm a Dog?
If I can sing an Epilogue.
The Ladies too, will be afraid
To hear a Man sing that is Dead.
But if a Whim like this may be,
Thisbe must rise as well as me.
Thisbe.

This.
—What says my Pyre's Tongue?

Pyr.
The Epilogue is to be Sung.

This.
O fye my Love, how can it be?
I ne'er cou'd Sing Extempore.

Pyr.
E'en let us try, 'tis but a Jest,
Somtimes an off-hand Thing is best;
Tho' I confess 'tis a New thing,
To make the Dead get up and sing.

This.
Pray don't pretend to't, for 'egad,
They'll certainly believe us Mad;

Pyr.
If that's the worst, we shall agree,
For all the World's as mad as we.

All are madding,
And Wits a gadding,
Past and present,
From the Peasant,
    To the Peer.
Some grow frantick with Ambition,
Every Fool turns Politician;
  All are Wise,
  And feign wou'd rise
    To Pow'r and Riches.
  None refuse 'em,
  None wou'd lose 'em.
Fame and Fortune all bewitches.
  Some have Reason
  Out of Season.
Madness seizes each Condition.
  Priest and Poet
  Often show it;
  This by Ranting,
  That by Canting.
All are caught, there's no Man clear.

This.
Now, what can I say for the Mask?

Pyr.
Say, Ladies—I've a Boon to ask,
That you wou'd smile—and then,
Bow round to all the Gentlemen,
And beg that they too wou'd consent,
To like this little Amusement;
And in return, our Thanks we'll pay,
With Strife to please you Day by Day,
And wish all you in Love—may be,
As I to Thisbe,—she to me.

TWO VOICES.
My Pyre, my Treasure, / My Thisbe, my Pleasure,
My Deare, my Pleasure; / My Darling, my Treasure,
  No more, bid adieu. / No more will we part.
In Love, I defie all, / Thou Flow'r of all Beauty,
  To find one so true. / Thou Cure of all Smart,
To th' Sun as is Dial, / I'll ever be true t'ye,
  So I'll be to you. / Thou Rose of my Heart.
My Pyre, my Treasure, / My Thisbe, my Pleasure,
My Deare, my Pleasure; / My Darling, my Treasure,
  No more, bid adieu. / No more will we part. FINIS.

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