Hippolita.
'Tis strange, my Theseus, what these lovers speak of.

Thes.
More strange than true. I never may believe
These antick fables, nor these Fairy toys;
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend more
Than cooler reason ever comprehends.
The lunatick, the lover, and the poet,
Are of imagination all compact:
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold;
The madman. While the lover, all as frantick,
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt.
The poet's eye in a fine frenzy rowling,
Doth glance from heav'n to earth, from earth to heav'n;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shape, and gives to aiery nothing
A local habitation and a name.
Such tricks hath strong imagination,
That if he would but apprehend some joy,
It comprehends some bringer of that joy:
Or in the night imagining some fear,
How easie is a bush suppos'd a bear?

Hip.
But all the story of the night told over,
And all their minds transfigur'd so together,

More witnesseth than fancy's images,
And grows to something of great constancy;
But howsoever strange and admirable. Enter Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia and Helena.

Thes.
Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.
Joy, gentle friends, joy and fresh days of love
Accompany your hearts.

Lys.
More than to us,
Wait on your royal walks, your board, your bed.

Thes.
Come now, what masks, what dances shall we have,
To wear away this long age of three hours,
Between our after-supper and bed-time?
Where is our usual manager of mirth?
What revels are in hand? is there no play
To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?
Call Philostrate. Enter Philostrate.

Philost.
Here, mighty Theseus.

Thes.
Say, what abridgment have you for this evening?
What mask? what musick? how shall we beguile
The lazy time, if not with some delight?

Philost.
There is a brief how many sports are rife:
Make choice of which your Highness will see first.

Lys.
The battel with the Centaurs, to be sung
By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.

Thes.
We'll none of that. That have I told my love,
In glory of my kinsman Hercules.

Lys.
The riot of the tipsie Bachanals,
Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.

Thes.
That is an old device, and it was plaid
When I from Thebes came last a conqueror.

Lys.
The thrice three Muses mourning for the death
Of learning, late deceas'd in beggary.

Thes.
That is some satyr keen and critical,
Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony.

Lys.
A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus,
And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.

Thes.
Merry and tragical? tedious and brief?
How shall we find the concord of this discord?

Philost.
A play there is, my lord, some ten words long,
Which is as brief as I have known a play;
But by ten words, my lord, it is too long,
Which makes it tedious: for in all the play
There is not one word apt, one player fitted.
And tragical, my noble lord, it is:
For Pyramus therein doth kill himself.
Which when I saw rehears'd, I must confess
Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears
The passion of loud laughter never shed.

Thes.
What are they that do play it?

Philost.
Hard-handed men that work in Athens here,
Which never labour'd in their minds 'till now;
And now have toil'd their unbreath'd memories
With this same play against your nuptials.

Thes.
And we will hear it.

Philost.
No, my noble lord,
It is not for you. I have heard it over,
And it is nothing, nothing in the world,
Unless you can find sport in their intents,
Extremely stretch'd and conn'd with cruel pain,
To do you service.

Thes.
I will hear that play:
For never any thing can be amiss,

When simpleness and duty tender it.
Go bring them in, and take your places, ladies. [Exit Phil.

Hip.
I love not to see wretchedness o'ercharg'd,
And duty in his service perishing.

Thes.
Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing.

Hip.
He says they can do nothing in this kind.

Thes.
The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing.
Our sport shall be, to take what they mistake;
And what poor duty cannot do, noble respect
Takes it in might, not merit.
Where I have come, great clerks have purposed
To greet me with premeditated welcomes;
Where I have seen them shiver and look pale,
Make periods in the midst of sentences,
Throttle their practis'd accent in their fears,
And in conclusion dumbly have broke off,
Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet,
Out of this silence yet I pick'd a welcome:
And in the modesty of fearful duty
I read as much, as from the ratling tongue
Of sawcy and audacious eloquence.
Love therefore, and tongue-ty'd simplicity,
In least, speak most, to my capacity. Enter Philomon.

Phil.
So please you Grace, the prologue is addrest.

Thes.
Let him approach. [Flor. Trum.

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