Lion, as in dumb shew.
Pro.
Gentles, perchance, you wonder at this show,
But wonder on, till truth make all things plain.
This man is Pyramus, if you would know;
This beauteous lady Thisbe is, certain.
This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present
-- 162 --
Wall, the vile wall, which did these lovers sunder:
And through wall's chink, poor souls, they are content
To whisper, at the which let no man wonder.
This man, with lanthorn, 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 Thisbe, coming first by night,
Did scare away, or rather did affright:
And as she fled, her mantle she let fall;
Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain.
Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall,
And finds his trusty Thisbe's mantle slain;
Whereat, with blade, with bloody blameful blade
He bravely broach'd his boiling bloody breast.
And Thisbe, tarrying in the 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 all but Wall.
Thes.
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 befall,
That I, one Snout by name, present a wall:
And such a wall, as I would have you think,
That had in it a crannied hole or chink;
Through which the lovers, Pyr'mus and Thisbe,
Did whisper often very secretly.
This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone doth shew,
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.
Thes.
Would you desire lime and hair to speak better?
Dem.
It is the wittiest partition, that ever I heard
discourse, my lord.
-- 163 --
Thes.
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 Thisbe's promise is forgot.
And thou, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall,
That stands between her father's ground and mine;
Thou wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall,
Shew me thy chink, to blink through with mine eyne.
Thanks, courteous wall; Jove shield thee well for this!
But what see I? no Thisbe do I see.
O wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss;
Curst be thy stones for thus deceiving me!
Thes.
The wall, methinks, being sensible, should
curse again.
Pyr.
No, in truth, Sir, he should not. Deceiving
me, is Thisbe's cue; she is to enter, 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.
This.
O 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 Thisbe's face.
Thisbe!
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.
-- 164 --
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 straightway?
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.
[Exit.
Thes.
4 note
Now is the Mural down between the two
neighbours.
Dem.
No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful
to rear without warning.
Hip.
This is the silliest stuff that e'er I heard.
Thes.
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.
Thes.
If we imagine no worse of them than they of
themselves, they may pass for excellent men. Here
come two noble beasts in a man 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
No 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.
Thes.
A very gentle beast, and of a good conscience.
Dem.
The very best at a beast, my lord, that e'er
I saw.
-- 165 --
Lys.
This Lion is a very fox for his valour.
Thes.
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.
Thes.
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 hearken to the
moon.
Moon.
This lanthorn doth the horned moon present.
Dem.
He should have worn the horns on his head.
Thes.
He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible
within the circumference.
Moon.
This lanthorn doth the horned moon present:
My self the man i'th' moon doth seem to be.
Thes.
This is the greatest error of all the rest; the
man should be put into the lanthorn: 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 weary of this moon; 'would, he would change!
Thes.
It appears by his small light of discretion, that
he is in the wane; but yet in courtesie, in all reason,
we must stay the time.
Lys.
Proceed, Moon.
Moon.
All that I have to say, is to tell you that
the lanthorn is the moon; I, the man in the moon;
this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my
dog.
Dem.
Why, all these should be in the lanthorn;
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 roar'd, Lion.
-- 166 --
Thes.
Well run, Thisbe.
Hip.
Well shone, Moon.
Truly, the Moon shines with a good grace.
Thes.
Well mouz'd, Lion.
Dem.
And then came Pyramus.
Lys.
And so the Lion vanish'd.
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 Thisbe's sight.
But stay: O spight!
But mark, poor Knight,
What dreadful dole is here?
Eyes, do you see!
How can it be!
O dainty duck! O deer!
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.
Thes.
This passion, and the death of a dear friend
Would go near to make a man look sad.
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;
-- 167 --
Tongue, lose thy light: moon, take thy flight;
Now die, die, die, die, die.
[Dies.
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.
Thes.
With the help of a Surgeon he might yet recover,
and prove an ass.
Hip.
How chance the Moonshine is gone, before Thisbe
comes back and finds her lover?
Enter Thisbe.
Thes.
She will find him by star-light.
Here she comes; and her passion ends the Play.
Hip.
Methinks, she should not use a long one for
such a Pyramus: I hope, she will be brief.
Dem.
A moth will turn the ballance, which Pyramus,
which Thisbe, is the better.
Lys.
She hath spy'd him already with those sweet eyes.
Dem.
And thus she (a) note moans, videlicet.—
Thes.
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 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;
Lave them in gore,
-- 168 --
Since you have shore
With shears his thread of silk.
Tongue, not a word:
Come, trusty sword;
Come, blade, my breast imbrue:
And farewel, friends,
Thus Thisbe ends;
Adieu, adieu, adieu.
[Dies.
Thes.
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?
Thes.
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 blam'd. Marry,
if he, that writ it, had play'd Pyramus, and hung
himself in Thisbe's garter it would have been a fine tragedy:
and so it is, truly, and very notably discharg'd.
But 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 over-watch'd.
This palpable gross Play hath well beguil'd
The heavy gate of night. Sweet friends, to bed.
A fortnight hold we this solemnity,
In nightly revel and new jollity.
[Exeunt.
-- 169 --
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
