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!

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