THESEUS.
Now, fair Hippolita, our nuptial hour
Draws on apace; four happy days bring in
Another moon: But oh, methinks how slow
This old moon wanes! She lingers my desires,
Like to a step-dame, or a dowager,
Long withering out a young man's revenue.

Hip.
Four days will quickly steep themselves in nights,
And then the moon, like to a silver bow,
New bent in heaven, shall behold the night
Of our solemnities.

The.
Go, Philostrate,
Stir up th' Athenian youth to merriments;
Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth:
Turn melancholy forth to funerals.
The pale companion is not for our pomp.
Hippolita, I woo'd thee with my sword,
And won thy love, doing thee injuries:
But I will wed thee in another key,
With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling.

Enter Egeus, Hermia, Lysander, and Demetrius.

Ege.
Happy be Theseus our renowned Duke.

The.
Thanks, good Egeus; what's the news with thee?

Ege.
Full of vexation, come I with complaint
Against my child, my daughter Hermia.
Stand forth, Demetrius. My noble Lord,
This man hath my consent to marry her.
Stand forth, Lysander. And, my gracious Duke,
This hath bewitch'd the bosom of my child:
Thou, thou, Lysander. And, my noble Lord,
Be't so, she will not here, before your Grace,
Consent to marry with Demetrius,
I beg the ancient privilege of Athens;
As she is mine, I may dispose of her:
Which shall he either to this gentleman,
Or to her death, according to our law.

The.
What say you, Hermia? Be advis'd, fair maid,
Demetrius is a worthy gentleman.

Her.
So is Lysander.

The.
In himself he is;
But in this kind, wanting your father's voice,
The other must be held the worthier.

Her.
I do intreat your Grace to pardon me:
I know not by what pow'r I am made bold,
In such a presence here to plead my thoughts:
But I beseech your Grace, that I may know
The worst that may befall, if I refuse.

The.
Either to die the death, or to abjure
For ever the society of men;
Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires,
Whether not yielding to your father's choice,
You can endure the livery of a nun:
Thrice blessed they that master so their blood,
But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd,
Than that, which withering on the virgin thorn,
Grows, lives, and dies, in single blessedness.

Her.
So will I grow, so live, so die, my Lord,
Ere I will yield my virgin heart and hand
Unto his Lordship, to whose unwish'd yoke
My soul consents not to give sov'reignty.

AIR.
With mean disguise let others nature hide,
  And mimick virtue with the paint of art;
I scorn the cheat of reason's foolish pride,
  And boast the graceful weakness of my heart;
The more I think, the more I feel my pain,
  And learn the more each heav'nly charm to prize;
While fools, too light for passion, safe remain,
  And dull sensation keeps the stupid wise.

The.
Take time to pause, and by the next new moon,
(The sealing-day betwixt my love and me)
Upon that day either prepare to die,
For disobedience to your father's will,
Or else to wed Demetrius; or protest
A single life on chaste Diana's altar.

Dem.
Relent, sweet Hermia, and Lysander yield.

Lys.
You have her father's love, Demetrius;
Let me have Hermia's; do you marry him.

Ege.
Scornful Lysander! true, he hath my love;
And what is mine, my love shall render him.

Lys.
I am, my Lord, as well deriv'd as he,
As well possest: My love is more than his:
My fortune's ev'ry way as fairly rank'd,
And, which is more than all, I'm lov'd of Hermia.
Why shou'd not I then prosecute my right?
Demetrius sought Nedar's daughter Helena,
And won her soul; and she, sweet Lady, doats,
Devoutly doats, doats in idolatry
Upon this spotted and inconstant man.

The.
I must confess that I have heard so much,
And with Demetrius thought t'have spoke thereof;
But being over-full of self-affairs
My mind did lose it. But Demetrius, come,
And come, Egeus, you shall go with me,
I have some private schooling for you both.
For you, fair Hermia, look you arm yourself
To fit your fancies to your father's will;
Or else the law of Athens yields you up
To death, or to a vow of single life.
Come, my Hippolita. [Exeunt.

Manent Lysander and Hermia.

Lys.
Hermia, for aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth,
But either it was different in blood,
Or else misgrafted in respect of years,
Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,
Or if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it
Making it momentary as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,
Brief as the lightning in the collied night
That (in a spleen) unfolds both heav'n and earth;
And ere a man hath power to say, behold!
The jaws of darkness do devour it up;
So quick bright things come to confusion.

Her.
If then true lovers have been ever crost,
Oh, let us teach our trial patience:

Lys.
A good persuasion; therefore hear me, Hermia:
I have a widow-aunt, a dowager,
From Athens is her house remov'd seven leagues;
There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee,
And to that place the sharp Athenian law
Cannot pursue us. If thou lov'st me, then,
Steal forth to-morrow night; and in the wood
Where I did meet thee once with Helena,
To do observance to the morn of May,
There will I stay for thee.
AIR.
When that gay season did us lead
To the tann'd hay-cock in the mead,
When the merry bells rung round,
And the rebecks brisk did sound,
When young and old came forth to play
On a sunshine holyday.
Let us wander far away,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray
O'er the mountains barren breast,
Where labouring clouds do often rest,
O'er the meads with daizies py'd,
Shallow brooks and rivers wide.

Her.
My good Lysander,
I swear to thee by Cupid's strongest bow,
By all the vows that ever men have broke,
To morrow truly will I meet Lysander.

Lys.
Keep promise, love. Look here comes Helena. Enter Helena.

Her.
Good speed, fair Helena! whither away?

Hel.
Call you me fair? that fair again unsay;
Demetrius loves you, fair;
AIR.
O Hermia fair, O happy, happy fair,
Your eyes are load stars, and your Tongue's sweet air,
More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear,
When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear;
O teach me how you look, and with what art
You sway the motions of your lover's heart.

Her.
Take comfort;
Demetrius no more shall see your Hermia,
Lysander and myself will fly this place.
AIR.
Before the time I did Lysander see,
Seem'd Athens like a Paradise to me;
O then, what graces in my love do dwell,
That he hath turn'd a heaven into a hell!

Lys.
Helen, to you we will unfold our minds;
To-morrow night, when Phebe doth behold
Her silver visage in the wat'ry glass,
Decking the bladed grass with liquid pearl,
(A time to lovers flights is still propitious)
Through Athens' gate have we devis'd to steal.

Her.
And in the wood, where often you and I
Were won't to lye upon faint primrose beds,
Emptying our bosoms of their counsels sweet,
There my Lysander and myself shall meet,
And thence from Athens turn away our eyes,
To seek new friends and strange companions.
Farewel sweet play-fellow! Pray thou for us;

Keep word, Lysander, we must starve our sight
From lover's food, 'till morrow deep midnight. [Exit Hermia.

Lys.
I will, my Hermia. Helena, adieu!
As you on him, Demetrius doat on you. [Exit Lys.

Hel.
How happy some, o'er other some can be!
Through Athens I am thought as fair as Hermia;
But what of that; Demetrius thinks not so:
Yet ere he look'd on Hermia's eyes, he swore,
He hail'd down oaths that he was only mine:
I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight:
Then to the Wood will he to-morrow night
Pursue her; and for this intelligence,
If I have thanks, it is a dear reward.
AIR.
Against myself why all this art,
To glad my eyes, I grieve my heart;
To give him joy, I court my bane!
And with his sight enrich my pain. [Exit Hel. Scene SCENE a Room in Quince's House. Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snowt, and Starveling.

Quin.

Is all our company here?

Bot.

You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip.

Quin.

Here is the scrowl of every man's name, which is thought fit through all Athens to play in our interlude before the Duke and Dutchess, on his wedding day at night.

Bot.

First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on; then read the names of the actors; and so grow on to a point.

Quin.

Marry, our play is the most lamentable comedy, and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby.

Bot.

A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scrowl. Masters, spread yourselves.

Quin.

Answer as I call you. Nick Bottom the weaver!

Bot.

Ready: Name what part I am for, and proceed.

Quin.

You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus.

Bot.

What is Pyramus, a lover, or a tyrant?

Quin.

A lover that kills himself most gallantly for love.

Bot.

That will ask some tears in the true performing of it: If I do it let the audience look to their eyes; I will move storms; I will condole in some measure. To the rest; yet, my chief humour is for a tyrant; I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in. “To make all split the raging rocks and shivering shocks shall break the locks of prison-gates, and Phibbus carr shall shine from far, and make and mar the foolish fates!” This was lofty. Now name the rest of the players. This is Ercles vein, a tyrant's vein; a lover is more condoling.

Quin.

Francis Flute, the bellows-mender.

Flu.

Here, Peter Quince.

Quin.

Flute, you must take Thisby on you.

Flu.

What is Thisby, a wand'ring knight?

Quin.

It is the Lady that Pyramus must love.

Flu.

Nay, faith, let not me play a woman, I have a beard coming.

Quin.

That's all one, you shall play it in a mask, and you may speak small as you will.

Bot.

An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby too; I'll speak in a monstrous little voice; Thisne, Thisne; ah Pyramus my lover dear, thy Thisby dear, and lady dear.

Quin.

No, no, you must play Pyramus; and Flute, you Thisby.

Bot.

Well, proceed.

Quin.

Robin Starveling, the Taylor.

Star.

Here, Peter Quince.

Quin.

Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby's mother: Tom Snowt, the tinker.

Snowt.

Here, Peter Quince.

Quin.

You, Pyramus's father; myself, Thisby's father; Snug the joiner, you the Lion's part; I hope there is a play fitted.

Snug.

Have you the Lion's part written? Pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of study.

Quin.

You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring.

Bot.

Let me play the Lion too, I will roar, that I will do any man's heart good to hear me. I will roar, that I will make the Duke say, let him roar again, let him roar again!

Quin.

If you should do it too terribly, you would fright the Dutchess and the Ladies, that they would shriek, and that were enough to hang us all.

All.

That would hang us every mother's son.

Bot.

I grant you, friends, if you should fright the Ladies out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to hang us; but I will aggravate my voice so, that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove; I will roar you an 'twere any nightingale.

Quin.

You can play no part but Pyramus, for Pyramus is a sweet-fac'd man, a proper man as one shall see in a summer's day; a most lovely gentleman-like man: therefore you must needs play Pyramus.

Bot.

Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I best to play it in?

Quin.

Why what you will.

Bot.

I will discharge it in either your straw-colour'd beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French-crown-colour'd beard, your perfect yellow.

Quin.

Some of your French-crowns have no hair at all, and then you will play bare fac'd. But, masters, here are your parts, and I am to intreat you, request you, and desire you to con them by to-morrow night; and meet me in the palace-wood, a mile without the town, by moonlight, there we will rehearse; for if we meet in the city, we shall be dog'd with company, and our devices known. In the mean time I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants. I pray you fail me not.

Bot.

We will meet, and there we may rehearse more obscenely and courageously. Take pains, be perfect, adieu.

Quin.

At the Duke's oak we meet.

Bot.

But hold ye, hold ye, neighbours; are your voices in order, and your tunes ready? For if we miss our musical pitch, we shall be all 'sham'd and abandon'd.

Quin.

Ay, ay! Nothing goes down so well as a little of your sol, fa, and long quaver; therefore let us be in our airs —and for better assurance I have got the pitch pipe.

Bot.

Stand round, stand round! We'll rehearse our eplog —Clear up your pipes, and every man in his turn take up his stanza-verse—Are you all ready?

All.

Ay, ay!—Sound the pitch-pipe, Peter Quince.

Bot.

Now make your reverency and begin.

SONG—for Epilogue; By Quince, Bottom, Snug, Flute, Starveling, Snout.

1 Quin.
Most noble Duke, to us be kind;
Be you and all your courtiers blind,
That you may not our errors find,
  But smile upon our sport.
For we are simple actors all,
Some fat, some lean, some short, some tall;
Our pride is great, our merit small;
  Will that, pray, do at court?

II. Starv.
The writer too of this same piece,
Like other poets here of Greece,
May think all swans, that are but geese,
  And spoil your princely sport.
Six honest folks we are, no doubt,
But scarce know what we've been about,
And tho' we're honest, if we're out,
  That will not do at court.

III. Bot.
Shall tinkers, weavers, taylors, dare
To strut and bounce like any play'r,
And shew you all, what fools we are,
  And that way make you sport?
Our lofty parts we could not hit,
For what we undertook unfit;
Much noise indeed, but little wit,
  That will not do at court.

IV. Flu.
O would the Duke and Dutchess smile,
The court would do the same awhile,
But call us after, low and vile,
  And that way make their sport:
Nay, would you still more pastime make,
And at poor we your purses shake,
Whate'er you give, we'll gladly take,
  For that will do at court.

Bot.

Well said, my boys, my hearts! Sing but like nightingales thus when you come to your misrepresentation, and we are made for ever, you rogues! so! steal a way now to your homes without inspection; meet me at the Duke's oak—by moon light—mum's the word.

All.

Mum!

Previous section

Next section