Lion.
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, Thisby is certain.
This man with lime and rough-cast, doth present
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 grizly beast, which Lion hight by name,
The trusty Thisby, coming first by night,
Did scare away, or rather did affright:
-- 143 --
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 Thisby's mantle slain;
Whereat, with blade, with bloody blameful blade,
He bravely broach'd his boiling bloody breast.
And Thisby, tarrying in the mulberry shade,
His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest,
Let Lyon, 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 befal,
That I, one Flute 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, Pyramus and Thisby,
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.
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 Thisby's promise is forgot.
-- 144 --
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 Thisby 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 Thisby'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 Thisby's face.
Thisby!
This.
My love thou art, my love, I think.
Pyr.
Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover's grace.
And like Limandea 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.
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.
-- 145 --
Thes.
Now is the† note note note moon used between the two neighbours.
Dem.
No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear
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 Moon-shine.
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.
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.
-- 146 --
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 this 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 Thisby.
Enter Thisby.
This.
This is old Ninny's tomb; where is my love?
Lion.
Oh.
[The Lion roars, Thisby runs off.
Dem.
Well roar'd Lion.
Thes.
Well run Thisby.
Hip.
Well shone Moon.
Truly the Moon shines with a good grace.
Thes.
Well mouth'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 Thisby's sight.
-- 147 --
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,
Tongue lose thy light, moon take thy flight,
Now die, die, die, die, die.
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 Moon-shine is gone, before Thisby comes
back and finds her lover?
-- 148 --
Enter Thisby.
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
Thisby is the better.
Lys.
She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes.
Dem.
And thus she means, videlicet.
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 were green as leeks.
O sisters three,
Come, come to me,
With hands as pale as milk;
Lay them in gore,
Since you have shore
With sheers this thread of silk.
Tongue not a word:
Come trusty sword;
Come blade, my breast imbrue:
And farewel friends,
Thus Thisby ends;
Adieu, adieu, adieu.
-- 149 --
Thes.
Moon-shine 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 Thisby'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 gaite of night. Sweet friends to bed.
A fortnight hold we this solemnity,
In nightly revel and new jollity.
[Exeunt.
George Sewell [1723–5], The works of Shakespear in six [seven] volumes. Collated and Corrected by the former Editions, By Mr. Pope ([Vol. 7] Printed by J. Darby, for A. Bettesworth [and] F. Fayram [etc.], London) [word count] [S11101].
