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Universidade da Amazônia

A MidsummerA Midsummer

Night's DreamNight's Dream

by William Shakespeare

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A Midsummer Night's Dream

by William Shakespeare

Dramatis Personae

Theseus, Duke of Athens

Egeus, father to Hermia

Lysander, in love with Hermia

Demetrius, in love with Hermia

Philostrate, Master of the Revels to Theseus

Quince, a carpenter

Snug, a joiner

Bottom, a weaver

Flute, a bellows-mender

Snout, a tinker

Starveling, a tailor

Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, bethrothed to Theseus

Hermia, daughter to Egeus, in love with Lysander

Helena, in love with Demetrius

Oberon, King of the Fairies

Titânia, Queen of the Fairies

Puck, or Robin Goodfellow

Peaseblossom, fairy

Cobweb, fairy

Moth, fairy

Mustardseed, fairy

Prologue, Pyramus, Thisby, Wall, Moonshine, Lion are presented by: Quince,

Bottom, Flute, Snout, Starveling, AND Snug

Other Fairies attending their King and Queen Attendants on Theseus and Hippolyta

SCENE:

Athens and a wood near it

ACT I. SCENE I.

Athens. The palace of Theseus

(Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate, and Attendantso)

Theseu —. Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour draws on apace; four happy days

bring in another moon; but, O, 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.

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Hippolyta — Four days will quickly steep themselves in night; four nights will quickly

dream away the time; and then the moon, like to a silver bow new-bent in heaven,

shall behold the night of our solemnities.

Theseus.— Go, Philostrate, stir up the 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.

(Exit Philostrate)

Hippolyta — 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, and his daughter Hermia, Lysander and Demetrius)

Egeus. — Happy be Theseus, our renowned Duke!

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

Egeus. — 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 man hath bewitch'd the

bosom of my child. Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes, and

interchang'd love-tokens with my child; thou hast by moonlight at her window sung,

with feigning voice, verses of feigning love, and stol'n the impression of her fantasy

with bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits, knacks, trifles, nosegays,

sweetmeats— messengers of strong prevailment in unhardened youth; with cunning

hast thou filch'd my daughter's heart; turn'd her obedience, which is due to me, to

stubborn harshness. And, my gracious Duke, be it 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 be either to this gentleman or to her death,

according to our law immediately provided in that case.

Theseus. — What say you, Hermia? Be advis'd, fair maid. To you your father should

be as a god; one that compos'd your beauties; yea, and one to whom you are but as

a form in wax, by him imprinted, and within his power to leave the figure, or disfigure

it. Demetrius is a worthy gentleman.

Hermia. — So is Lysander.

Theseus. — In himself he is; but, in this kind, wanting your father's voice, the other

must be held the worthier.

Hermia. — I would my father look'd but with my eyes.

Theseus. — Rather your eyes must with his judgment look.

Hermia. — I do entreat your Grace to pardon me. I know not by what power I am

made bold, nor how it may concern my modesty in such a presence here to plead my

thoughts; but I beseech your Grace that I may know the worst that may befall me in

this case, if I refuse to wed Demetrius.

Theseus. — Either to die the death, or to abjure for ever the society of men.

Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires, know of your youth, examine well your

blood, whether, if you yield not to your father's choice, you can endure the livery of a

nun, for aye to be shady cloister mew'd, to live a barren sister all your life, chanting

faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon. Thrice-blessed they that master so their blood

to undergo such maiden pilgrimage; but earthlier happy is the rose distill'd than that

which withering on the virgin thorn grows, lives, and dies, in single blessedness.

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Hermia. — So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord, ere I will yield my virgin patent up

unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke my soul consents not to give sovereignty.

Theseus. — Take time to pause; and by the next new moon-the sealing-day betwixt

my love and me for everlasting bond of fellowship-upon that day either prepare to die

for disobedience to your father's will, or else to wed Demetrius, as he would, or on

Diana's altar to protest for aye austerity and single life.

Demetrius. — Relent, sweet Hermia; and, Lysander, yield thy crazed title to my

certain right.

Lysander. —You have her father's love, Demetrius; let me have Hermia's; do you

marry him.

Egeus. — Scornful Lysander, true, he hath my love; and what is mine my love shall

render him; and she is mine; and all my right of her i do estate unto Demetrius.

Lysander. — I am, my lord, as well deriv'd as he, as well possess'd; my love is more

than his; my fortunes every way as fairly rank'd, if not with vantage, as Demetrius';

and, which is more than all these boasts can be, i am belov'd of beauteous Hermia.

Why should not I then prosecute my right? Demetrius, I'll avouch it to his head, made

love to Nedar's daughter, Helena, and won her soul; and she, sweet lady, dotes,

devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry, upon this spotted and inconstant man.

Theseus. — I must confess that I have heard so much, and with Demetrius thought

to 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-which by no means we

may extenuate-to death, or to a vow of single life. Come, my Hippolyta; what cheer,

my love? Demetrius, and Egeus, go along; i must employ you in some business

against our nuptial, and confer with you of something nearly that concerns

yourselves.

Egeus. — With duty and desire we follow you.

(Exeunt all but Lysander and Hermia)

Lysander. — How now, my love! Why is your cheek so pale? How chance the roses

there do fade so fast?

Hermia. — Belike for want of rain, which I could well beteem them from the tempest

of my eyes.

Lysander. — Ay me! for aught that I could ever read, could ever hear by tale or

history, the course of true love never did run smooth; but either it was different in

blood-

Hermia. — O cross! too high to be enthrall'd to low.

Lysander. — Or else misgraffed in respect of years-

Hermia. — O spite! too old to be engag'd to young.

Lysander. — Or else it stood upon the choice of friends-

Hermia. — O hell! to choose love by another's eyes.

Lysander. — 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 heaven 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.

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Hermia. — If then true lovers have ever cross'd, It stands as an edict in destiny.

Then let us teach our trial patience, because it is a customary cross, as due to love

as thoughts and dreams and sighs, wishes and tears, poor Fancy's followers.

Lysander. — A good persuasion; therefore, hear me, Hermia. I have a widow aunt, a

dowager of great revenue, and she hath no child-from Athens is her house remote

seven leagues-and she respects me as her only son. There, gentle Hermia, may I

marry thee; and to that place the sharp Athenian law cannot pursue us. If thou lovest

me then, steal forth thy father's house to-morrow night; and in the wood, a league

without the town, where I did meet thee once with Helena to do observance to a morn

of May, there will I stay for thee.

Hermia. — My good Lysander! I swear to thee by Cupid's strongest bow, by his best

arrow, with the golden head, by the simplicity of Venus' doves, by that which knitteth

souls and prospers loves, and by that fire which burn'd the Carthage Queen, when

the false Troyan under sail was seen, by all the vows that ever men have broke, in

number more than ever women spoke, in that same place thou hast appointed me,

to-morrow truly will I meet with thee.

Lysander. — Keep promise, love. Look, here comes Helena.

(Enter Helena)

Hermia. — God speed fair Helena! Whither away?

Helena. — Call you me fair? That fair again unsay. Demetrius loves your fair. O

happy fair! Your eyes are lode-stars and your tongue's sweet air more tuneable than

lark to shepherd's ear, when wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. Sickness

is catching; O, were favour so, yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go! My ear

should catch your voice, my eye your eye, my tongue should catch your tongue's

sweet melody. Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated, the rest I'd give to be to

you translated. O, teach me how you look, and with what art you sway the motion of

Demetrius' heart!

Hermia. — I frown upon him, yet he loves me still.

Helena. — O that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill!

Hermia. — I give him curses, yet he gives me love.

Helena. — O that my prayers could such affection move!

Hermia. — The more I hate, the more he follows me.

Helena. — The more I love, the more he hateth me.

Hermia. — His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.

Helena. — None, but your beauty; would that fault were mine!

Hermia. — Take comfort: he no more shall see my face; Lysander and myself will ly

this place. Before the time I did Lysander see, seem'd Athens as a paradise to me.

O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, that he hath turn'd a heaven unto a hell!

Lysander. — Helen, to you our minds we will unfold: To-morrow night, when Phoebe

doth behold Her silver visage in the wat'ry glass, decking with liquid pearl the bladed

grass, a time that lovers' flights doth still conceal, through Athens' gates have we

devis'd to steal.

Hermia. — And in the wood where often you and i upon faint primrose beds were

wont to lie, emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet, there my Lysander and

myself shall meet; and thence from Athens turn away our eyes, to seek new friends

and stranger companies. Farewell, sweet playfellow; pray thou for us, and good luck

grant thee thy Demetrius! Keep word, Lysander; we must starve our sight from lovers'

food till morrow deep midnight.

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Lysander. — I will, my Hermia. [Exit Hermia] Helena, adieu; as you on him,

Demetrius dote on you.

(Exit)

Helena. — How happy some o'er other some can be! Through Athens I am thought

as fair as she. But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so; he will not know what all but

he do know. And as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes, so I, admiring of his qualities.

Things base and vile, holding no quantity, love can transpose to form and dignity.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is wing'd Cupid painted

blind. Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste; wings and no eyes figure unheedy

haste; and therefore is Love said to be a child, because in choice he is so oft

beguil'd. As waggish boys in game themselves forswear, so the boy Love is perjur'd

everywhere; for ere Demetrius look'd on Hermia's eyne, he hail'd down oaths that he

was only mine; and when this hail some heat from Hermia felt, so he dissolv'd, and

show'rs of oaths did melt. 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

expense. But herein mean I to enrich my pain, to have his sight thither and back

again.

(Exit)

SCENE II.

Athens. Quince'S house

(Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom Flute, Snout, and Starveling)

Quince. — Is all our company here?

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

scrip.

Quince. — Here is the scroll of every man's name which is thought fit, through all

Athens, to play in our interlude before the Duke and the Duchess on his wedding-day

at night.

Bottom.— First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on; then read the

names of the actors; and so grow to a point.

Quince.— Marry, our play is 'The most Lamentable Comedy and most Cruel Death

of Pyramus and Thisby.'

Bottom. — A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good Peter

Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll. Masters, spread yourselves.

Quince. — Answer, as I call you. Nick Bottom, the weaver.

Bottom. — Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed.

Quince. — You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus.

Bottom. — What is Pyramus? A lover, or a tyrant?

Quince. — A lover, that kills himself most gallant for love.

Bottom. — 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

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And shivering shocks

Shall break the locks

Of prison gates;

And Phibbus' car

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.

Quince. — Francis Flute, the bellows-mender.

Flute. — Here, Peter Quince.

Quince.— Flute, you must take Thisby on you.

Flute. — What is Thisby? A wand'ring knight?

Quince. — It is the lady that Pyramus must love.

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

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

you will.

Bottom. — An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby too. I'll speak in a monstrous

little voice: 'Thisne, Thisne!' [Then speaking small] 'Ah Pyramus, my lover dear! Thy

Thisby dear, and lady dear!'

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

Bottom. — Well, proceed.

Quince. — Robin Starveling, the tailor.

Starveling. — Here, Peter Quince.

Quince. — Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby's mother. Tom Snout, the tinker.

Snout. — Here, Peter Quince.

Quince. — You, Pyramus' father; myself, Thisby's father; Snug, the joiner, you, the

lion's part. And, I hope, here 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.

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

Bottom. — 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.'

Quince. An you should do it too terribly, you would fright the Duchess and the ladies,

that they would shriek; and that were enough to hang us all. ALL. That would hang

us, every mother's son.

Bottom. — 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.

Quince. — 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.

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

Quince. — Why, what you will.

Bottom. — I will discharge it in either your straw-colour beard, your orange-tawny

beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French-crown-colour beard, your perfect

yellow.

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Quince. — 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 entreat 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 will we rehearse; for if we meet in the city,

we shall be dogg'd with company, and our devices known. In the meantime I will

draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants. I pray you, fail me not.

Bottom. — We will meet; and there we may rehearse most obscenely and

courageously. Take pains; be perfect; adieu.

Quince. — At the Duke's oak we meet.

Bottom. — Enough; hold, or cut bow-strings.

(Exeunt)

ACT II. SCENE I.

A wood near Athens

(Enter a Fairy at One door, and Puck at another)

Puck. — How now, spirit! whither wander you?

Fairy. — Over hill, over dale, thorough bush, thorough brier, over park, over pale,

thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander every where, Swifter than the moon's

sphere; and I serve the Fairy Queen, to dew her orbs upon the green. The cowslips

tall her pensioners be; in their gold coats spots you see; those be rubies, fairy

favours, in those freckles live their savours. I must go seek some dewdrops here,

and hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone.

Our Queen and all her elves come here anon.

Puck. — The King doth keep his revels here to-night; take heed the Queen come not

within his sight; for Oberon is passing fell and wrath, because that she as her

attendant hath a lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king. She never had so sweet a

changeling; and jealous Oberon would have the child knight of his train, to trace the

forests wild; but she perforce withholds the loved boy, crowns him with flowers, and

makes him all her joy. And now they never meet in grove or green, by fountain clear,

or spangled starlight sheen, but they do square, that all their elves for fear creep into

acorn cups and hide them there.

Fairy. — Either I mistake your shape and making quite, or else you are that shrewd

and knavish sprite call'd Robin Goodfellow. Are not you he that frights the maidens of

the villagery, Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern, and bootless make the

breathless housewife churn, and sometime make the drink to bear no barm, mislead

night-wanderers, laughing at their harm? Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet

Puck, you do their work, and they shall have good luck. Are not you he?

Puck. — Thou speakest aright: I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to

Oberon, and make him smile when I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, neighing in

likeness of a filly foal; and sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl In very likeness of a

roasted crab, and, when she drinks, against her lips I bob, and on her withered

dewlap pour the ale. The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, sometime for three-foot

stool mistaketh me; then slip I from her bum, down topples she, and 'tailor' cries, and

falls into a cough; and then the whole quire hold their hips and laugh, and waxen in

their mirth, and neeze, and swear a merrier hour was never wasted there. But room,

fairy, here comes Oberon.

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Fairy. — And here my mistress. Would that he were gone!

(Enter Oberon at one door, with his TRAIN, and Titânia, at another, with hers).

Oberon.— Ill met by moonlight, proud Titânia.

Titânia. — What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence; I have forsworn his bed and

company.

Oberon. — Tarry, rash wanton; am not I thy lord?

Titânia. — Then I must be thy lady; but I know when thou hast stolen away from fairy

land, and in the shape of Corin sat all day, playing on pipes of corn, and versing love

to amorous Phillida. Why art thou here, come from the farthest steep of India, but

that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon, your buskin'd mistress and your warrior love, to

Theseus must be wedded, and you come to give their bed joy and prosperity?

Oberon.— How canst thou thus, for shame, Titânia, Glance at my credit with

Hippolyta, knowing I know thy love to Theseus? Didst not thou lead him through the

glimmering night from Perigouna, whom he ravished? And make him with fair Aegles

break his faith, with Ariadne and Antiopa?

Titânia. — These are the forgeries of jealousy; and never, since the middle

summer's spring, met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, by paved fountain, or by

rushy brook, or in the beached margent of the sea, to dance our ringlets to the

whistling wind, but with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport. Therefore the winds,

piping to us in vain, as in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea contagious fogs;

which, falling in the land, hath every pelting river made so proud that they have

overborne their continents. The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain, the

ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a

beard; the fold stands empty in the drowned field, and crows are fatted with the

murrion flock; the nine men's morris is fill'd up with mud, and the quaint mazes in the

wanton green, for lack of tread, are undistinguishable. The human mortals want their

winter here; no night is now with hymn or carol blest; therefore the moon, the

governess of floods, pale in her anger, washes all the air, that rheumatic diseases do

abound. And thorough this distemperature we see the seasons alter: hoary-headed

frosts fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose; and on old Hiems' thin and icy crown

an odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the

summer, the childing autumn, angry winter, change their wonted liveries; and the

mazed world, by their increase, now knows not which is which. And this same

progeny of evils comes from our debate, from our dissension; we are their parents

and original.

Oberon. — Do you amend it, then; it lies in you. Why should Titânia cross her

Oberon? I do but beg a little changeling boy to be my henchman.

Titânia. — Set your heart at rest; the fairy land buys not the child of me. His mother

was a vot'ress of my order; and, in the spiced Indian air, by night, full often hath she

gossip'd by my side; and sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands, marking th'

embarked traders on the flood; when we have laugh'd to see the sails conceive, and

grow big-bellied with the wanton wind; which she, with pretty and with swimming gait

Following— her womb then rich with my young squire-would imitate, and sail upon

the land, to fetch me trifles, and return again, as from a voyage, rich with

merchandise. But she, being mortal, of that boy did die; and for her sake do I rear up

her boy; and for her sake I will not part with him.

Oberon. — How long within this wood intend you stay?

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Titânia. — Perchance till after Theseus' wedding-day. If you will patiently dance in

our round, and see our moonlight revels, go with us; if not, shun me, and I will spare

your haunts.

Oberon. — Give me that boy and I will go with thee.

Titânia. — Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away. we shall chide downright if I

longer stay.

(Exit Titânia with her train)

Oberon.— Well, go thy way; thou shalt not from this grove till I torment thee for this

injury. My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememb'rest since once I sat upon a

promontory, and heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back uttering such dulcet and

harmonious breath that the rude sea grew civil at her song, and certain stars shot

madly from their spheres to hear the sea-maid's music.

Puck.— I remember.

Oberon. That very time I saw, but thou couldst not, flying between the cold moon and

the earth cupid, all arm'd; a certain aim he took at a fair vestal, throned by the west,

and loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow, as it should pierce a hundred

thousand hearts; but I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft quench'd in the chaste

beams of the wat'ry moon; and the imperial vot'ress passed on, in maiden meditation,

fancy-free. Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell. It fell upon a little western flower,

Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, and maidens call it Love-in-

idleness. Fetch me that flow'r, the herb I showed thee once. The juice of it on

sleeping eyelids laid will make or man or woman madly dote upon the next live

creature that it sees. Fetch me this herb, and be thou here again ere the leviathan

can swim a league.

Puck. — I'll put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes.

(Exit Puck)

Oberon. — Having once this juice, i'll watch Titânia when she is asleep, and drop the

liquor of it in her eyes; the next thing then she waking looks upon, be it on lion, bear,

or wolf, or bull, on meddling monkey, or on busy ape, she shall pursue it with the soul

of love. And ere I take this charm from off her sight, as I can take it with another

herb, i'll make her render up her page to me. But who comes here? I am invisible;

and I will overhear their conference.

(Enter Demetrius, Helena following him)

Demetrius.— I love thee not, therefore pursue me not. Where is Lysander and fair

Hermia? The one I'll slay, the other slayeth me. Thou told'st me they were stol'n unto

this wood, And here am I, and wood within this wood, because I cannot meet my

Hermia. Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more.

Helena. — You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant; but yet you draw not iron, for

my heart is true as steel. Leave you your power to draw, and I shall have no power to

follow you.

Demetrius. — Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair? Or, rather, do I not in plainest

truth tell you I do not nor I cannot love you?

Helena. — And even for that do I love you the more. I am your spaniel; and,

Demetrius, the more you beat me, I will fawn on you. Use me but as your spaniel,

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spurn me, strike me, neglect me, lose me; only give me leave, unworthy as I am, to

follow you. What worser place can I beg in your love, and yet a place of high respect

with me, than to be used as you use your dog?

Demetrius. — Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit; for I am sick when I do

look on thee.

Helena. — And I am sick when I look not on you.

Demetrius. — You do impeach your modesty too much to leave the city and commit

yourself into the hands of one that loves you not; to trust the opportunity of night, a

And the ill counsel of a desert place, with the rich worth of your virginity.

Helena. — Your virtue is my privilege for that: It is not night when I do see your face,

therefore I think I am not in the night; nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, for

you, in my respect, are all the world. Then how can it be said I am alone when all the

world is here to look on me?

Demetrius.— I'll run from thee and hide me in the brakes, and leave thee to the

mercy of wild beasts.

Helena. — The wildest hath not such a heart as you. Run when you will; the story

shall be chang'd: Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase; the dove pursues the

griffin; the mild hind makes speed to catch the tiger— bootless speed, when

cowardice pursues and valour flies.

Demetrius.— I will not stay thy questions; let me go; or, if thou follow me, do not

believe but I shall do thee mischief in the wood.

Helena. — Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field, you do me mischief. Fie,

Demetrius! Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex. We cannot fight for love as men

may do; we should be woo'd, and were not made to woo.

(Exit Demetrius)

I'll follow thee, and make a heaven of hell, to die upon the hand I love so well.

(Exit Helena)

Oberon. — Fare thee well, nymph; ere he do leave this grove, thou shalt fly him, and

he shall seek thy love.

(Re-enter Puck)

Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer.

Puck. — Ay, there it is.

Oberon. — I pray thee give it me. I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, where

oxlips and the nodding violet grows, quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, with

sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine; there sleeps Titânia sometime of the night,

lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight; and there the snake throws her

enamell'd skin, weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in; and with the juice of this I'll

streak her eyes, and make her full of hateful fantasies. Take thou some of it, and

seek through this grove: a sweet Athenian lady is in love with a disdainful youth;

anoint his eyes; but do it when the next thing he espies may be the lady. Thou shalt

know the man by the Athenian garments he hath on. Effect it with some care, that he

may prove more fond on her than she upon her love. And look thou meet me ere the

first cock crow.

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Puck. — Fear not, my lord; your servant shall do so.

(Exeunt)

SCENE II.

Another part of the wood

(Enter Titânia, with her train)

Titânia. — Come now, a roundel and a fairy song; then, for the third part of a minute,

hence: some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds; some war with rere-mice for their

leathern wings, to make my small elves coats; and some keep back the clamorous

owl that nightly hoots and wonders at our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep; then to

your offices, and let me rest.

The Fairies Sing

First Fairy. — You spotted snakes with double tongue, thorny hedgehogs, be not

seen; newts and blind-worms, do no wrong, come not near our fairy Queen.

Chorus. — Philomel with melody sing in our sweet lullaby. Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla,

lulla, lullaby. Never harm nor spell nor charm come our lovely lady nigh. So good

night, with lullaby.

Second Fairy. — Weaving spiders, come not here; hence, you long-legg'd spinners,

hence. Beetles black, approach not near; worm nor snail do no offence.

Chorus — Philomel with melody, etc.

[Titânia Sleeps]

First Fairy. — Hence away; now all is well. One aloof stand sentinel.

(Exeunt) Fairies

(Enter Oberon and squeezes the flower on Titânia's eyelids)

Oberon. — What thou seest when thou dost wake, do it for thy true-love take; love

and languish for his sake. Be it ounce, or cat, or bear, pard, or boar with bristled hair,

in thy eye that shall appear when thou wak'st, it is thy dear. Wake when some vile

thing is near.

(Exit)

(Enter Lysander and Hermia)

Lysander. — Fair love, you faint with wand'ring in the wood; and, to speak troth, I

have forgot our way; we'll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good, and tarry for the

comfort of the day.

Hermia. — Be it so, Lysander: find you out a bed, for I upon this bank will rest my

head.

Lysander. — One turf shall serve as pillow for us both; one heart, one bed, two

bosoms, and one troth.

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Hermia. — Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear, lie further off yet; do not lie so

near.

Lysander. — O, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence! Love takes the meaning in

love's conference. I mean that my heart unto yours is knit, so that but one heart we

can make of it; two bosoms interchained with an oath, so then two bosoms and a

single troth. Then by your side no bed-room me deny, for lying so, Hermia, I do not

lie.

Hermia.— Lysander riddles very prettily. Now much beshrew my manners and my

pride, if Hermia meant to say Lysander lied! But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy

lie further off, in human modesty; such separation as may well be said becomes a

virtuous bachelor and a maid, so far be distant; and good night, sweet friend. Thy

love ne'er alter till thy sweet life end!

Lysander. — Amen, amen, to that fair prayer say I; and then end life when I end

loyalty! Here is my bed; sleep give thee all his rest!

Hermia. — With half that wish the wisher's eyes be press'd!

[They sleep]

(Enter Puck)

Puck. — Through the forest have I gone, but Athenian found I none on whose eyes I

might approve this flower's force in stirring love. Night and silence— Who is here?

Weeds of Athens he doth wear: this is he, my master said, despised the Athenian

maid; and here the maiden, sleeping sound, on the dank and dirty ground. Pretty

soul! she durst not lie near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy. Churl, upon thy eyes I

throw all the power this charm doth owe: when thou wak'st let love forbid sleep his

seat on thy eyelid. So awake when I am gone; for I must now to Oberon.

(Exit)

(Enter Demetrius and Helena, running)

Helena. — Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius.

Demetrius.— I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.

Helena. — O, wilt thou darkling leave me? Do not so.

Demetrius.— Stay on thy peril; I alone will go.

(Exit)

Helena.— O, I am out of breath in this fond chase! The more my prayer, the lesser is

my grace. Happy is Hermia, wheresoe'er she lies, for she hath blessed and attractive

eyes. How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears; if so, my eyes are oft'ner

wash'd than hers. No, no, I am as ugly as a bear, for beasts that meet me run away

for fear; therefore no marvel though Demetrius do, as a monster, fly my presence

thus. What wicked and dissembling glass of mine made me compare with Hermia's

sphery eyne? But who is here? Lysander! on the ground! Dead, or asleep? I see no

blood, no wound. Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake.

Lysander. [Waking] — And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake. Transparent

Helena! Nature shows art, that through thy bosom makes me see thy heart. Where is

Demetrius? O, how fit a word is that vile name to perish on my sword!

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Helena. — Do not say so, Lysander; say not so. What though he love your Hermia?

Lord, what though? Yet Hermia still loves you; then be content.

Lysander. — Content with Hermia! No: I do repent the tedious minutes I with her

have spent. Not Hermia but Helena I love: who will not change a raven for a dove?

The will of man is by his reason sway'd, and reason says you are the worthier maid.

Things growing are not ripe until their season; so I, being young, till now ripe not to

reason; and touching now the point of human skill, reason becomes the marshal to

my will, and leads me to your eyes, where I o'erlook love's stories, written in Love's

richest book.

Helena. — Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I

deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, that I did never, no,

nor never can, deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, but you must flout my

insufficiency? Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, you do, in such disdainful

manner me to woo. But fare you well; perforce I must confess i thought you lord of

more true gentleness. O, that a lady of one man refus'd should of another therefore

be abus'd!

(Exit)

Lysander. — She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there; and never mayst thou

come Lysander near! For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things the deepest loathing to

the stomach brings, or as the heresies that men do leave are hated most of those

they did deceive, so thou, my surfeit and my heresy, of all be hated, but the most of

me! And, all my powers, address your love and might to honour Helen, and to be her

knight!

(Exit)

Hermia.— [Starting] Help me, Lysander, help me; do thy best to pluck this crawling

serpent from my breast. Ay me, for pity! What a dream was here! Lysander, look how

I do quake with fear. methought a serpent eat my heart away, and you sat smiling at

his cruel prey. Lysander! What, remov'd? Lysander! lord! What, out of hearing gone?

No sound, no word? Alack, where are you? Speak, an if you hear; speak, of all loves!

I swoon almost with fear. No? Then I well perceive you are not nigh. Either death or

you I'll find immediately.

(Exit)

ACT III. SCENE I.

The wood. Titânia lying asleep

(Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, and Starveling)

Bottom. — Are we all met?

Quince. — Pat, pat; and here's a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal. This

green plot shall be our stage, this hawthorn brake our tiring-house; and we will do it in

action, as we will do it before the Duke.

Bottom. — Peter Quince!

Quince. — What sayest thou, bully Bottom?

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Bottom. —There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisby that will never

please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself; which the ladies cannot

abide. How answer you that?

Snout. — By'r lakin, a parlous fear.

Starveling. — I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done.

Bottom. — Not a whit; I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue; and let

the prologue seem to say we will do no harm with our swords, and that Pyramus is

not kill'd indeed; and for the more better assurance, tell them that I Pyramus am not

Pyramus but Bottom the weaver. This will put them out of fear.

Quince. — Well, we will have such a prologue; and it shall be written in eight and six.

Bottom. — No, make it two more; let it be written in eight and eight.

Snout. — Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion?

Starveling.— I fear it, I promise you.

Bottom. — Masters, you ought to consider with yourself to bring in-god shield us!—

a lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing; for there is not a more fearful wild-fowl

than your lion living; and we ought to look to't.

Snout. — Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion.

Bottom. — Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be seen through

the lion's neck; and he himself must speak through, saying thus, or to the same

defect: 'Ladies,' or 'Fair ladies, I would wish you' or 'I would request you' or 'I would

entreat you not to fear, not to tremble. My life for yours! If you think I come hither as a

lion, it were pity of my life. No, I am no such thing; I am a man as other men are.' And

there, indeed, let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the joiner.

Quince.— Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard things— that is, to bring the

moonlight into a chamber; for, you know, Pyramus and Thisby meet by moonlight.

Snout. — Doth the moon shine that night we play our play?

Bottom. — A calendar, a calendar! Look in the almanack; find out moonshine, find

out moonshine.

Quince. — Yes, it doth shine that night.

Bottom. — Why, then may you leave a casement of the great chamber window,

where we play, open; and the moon may shine in at the casement.

Quince. — Ay; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns and a lantern, and say

he comes to disfigure or to present the person of Moonshine. Then there is another

thing: we must have a wall in the great chamber; for Pyramus and Thisby, says the

story, did talk through the chink of a wall.

Snout. — You can never bring in a wall. What say you, Bottom?

Bottom. — Some man or other must present Wall; and let him have some plaster, or

some loam, or some rough-cast about him, to signify wall; and let him hold his fingers

thus, and through that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisby whisper.

Quince. — If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit down, every mother's son, and

rehearse your parts. Pyramus, you begin; when you have spoken your speech, enter

into that brake; and so every one according to his cue.

(Enter Puck behind)

Puck. — What hempen homespuns have we swagg'ring here, so near the cradle of

the Fairy Queen? What, a play toward! I'll be an auditor; an actor too perhaps, if I see

cause.

Quince.— Speak, Pyramus. Thisby, stand forth.

Bottom.— Thisby, the flowers of odious savours sweet-

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Quince.— 'Odious'— odorous!

Bottom.— odours savours sweet; so hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby dear. But

hark, a voice! Stay thou but here awhile, and by and by I will to thee appear.

(Exit)

Puck —. A stranger Pyramus than e'er played here!

(Exit)

Flute.— Must I speak now?

Quince.— Ay, marry, must you; for you must understand he goes but to see a noise

that he heard, and is to come again.

Flute. — Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue, of colour like the red rose on

triumphant brier, most brisky juvenal, and eke most lovely Jew, as true as truest

horse, that would never tire, i'll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomb.

Quince.— 'Ninus' tomb,' man! Why, you must not speak that yet; that you answer to

Pyramus. You speak all your part at once, cues, and all. Pyramus enter: your cue is

past; it is 'never tire.'

Flute. — As true as truest horse, that y et would never tire.

(Re-enter Puck, and Bottom with an ass's head)

Bottom.— If I were fair, Thisby, I were only thine.

Quince.— O monstrous! O strange! We are haunted. Pray, masters! fly, masters!

Help!

(Exeunt all but Bottom and Puck)

Puck. I'll follow you; I'll lead you about a round, through bog, through bush, through

brake, through brier; sometime a horse I'll be, sometime a hound, a hog, a headless

bear, sometime a fire; and neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn, like horse,

hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn.

(Exit)

Bottom. — Why do they run away? This is a knavery of them to make me afeard.

(Re-enter Snout)

Snout. — O Bottom, thou art chang'd! What do I see on thee?

Bottom. — What do you see? You see an ass-head of your own, do you?

(Exit Snout)

(Re-enter Quince)

Quince. — Bless thee, Bottom, bless thee! Thou art translated.

(Exit)

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Bottom. — I see their knavery: this is to make an ass of me; to fright me, if they

could. But I will not stir from this place, do what they can; I will walk up and down

here, and will sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid.

[Sings]

The ousel cock, so black of hue,

With orange-tawny bill,

The throstle with his note so true,

The wren with little quill.

Titânia. — What angel wakes me from my flow'ry bed? Bottom.

[Sings]

The finch, the sparrow, and the lark,

The plain-song cuckoo grey,

Whose note full many a man doth mark,

And dares not answer nay-for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a

bird? Who would give a bird the he, though he cry 'cuckoo' never so?

Titânia.— I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again. Mine ear is much enamoured of thy

note; so is mine eye enthralled to thy shape; and thy fair virtue's force perforce doth

move me, on the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee.

Bottom. — Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that. And yet, to say

the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days. The more the

pity that some honest neighbours will not make them friends. Nay, I can gleek upon

occasion.

Titânia. — Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.

Bottom. — Not so, neither; but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood, I have

enough to serve mine own turn.

Titânia. — Out of this wood do not desire to go; thou shalt remain here whether thou

wilt or no. I am a spirit of no common rate; the summer still doth tend upon my state;

and I do love thee; therefore, go with me. I'll give thee fairies to attend on thee; and

they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep, and sing, while thou on pressed flowers

dost sleep; and I will purge thy mortal grossness so that thou shalt like an airy spirit

go. Peaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed!

(Enter Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustardseed)

Peaseblossom. Ready. Cobweb. And I. Moth. And I. Mustardseed. And I. All. Where

Shall We Go?

Titânia. Be kind and courteous to this gentleman; hop in his walks and gambol in his

eyes; feed him with apricocks and dewberries, with purple grapes, green figs, and

mulberries; the honey bags steal from the humble-bees, and for night-tapers crop

their waxen thighs, and light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes, to have my love to

bed and to arise; and pluck the wings from painted butterflies, to fan the moonbeams

from his sleeping eyes. Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.

Peaseblossom. Hail, mortal! Cobweb. Hail! Moth. Hail! Mustardseed. Hail!

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Bottom. — I cry your worships mercy, heartily; I beseech your worship's name.

Cobweb. Cobweb.

Bottom.— I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Cobweb. If I cut my

finger, I shall make bold with you. Your name, honest gentleman? Peaseblossom.

Peaseblossom.

Bottom. — I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, your mother, and to Master

Peascod, your father. Good Master Peaseblossom, I shall desire you of more

acquaintance too. Your name, I beseech you, sir? Mustardseed. Mustardseed.

Bottom. — Good Master Mustardseed, I know your patience well. That same

cowardly giant-like ox-beef hath devour'd many a gentleman of your house. I promise

you your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now. I desire you of more

acquaintance, good Master Mustardseed.

Titânia. — Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower. The moon, methinks, looks

with a wat'ry eye; and when she weeps, weeps every little flower; lamenting some

enforced chastity. Tie up my love's tongue, bring him silently.

(Exeunt)

SCENE II.

Another part of the wood

(Enter Oberon)

Oberon. — I wonder if Titânia be awak'd; then, what it was that next came in her

eye, which she must dote on in extremity.

(Enter Puck)

Here comes my messenger. How now, mad spirit! What night-rule now about this

haunted grove?

Puck. — My mistress with a monster is in love. Near to her close and consecrated

bower, while she was in her dull and sleeping hour, a crew of patches, rude

mechanicals, that work for bread upon Athenian stalls, were met together to rehearse

a play intended for great Theseus' nuptial day. The shallowest thickskin of that barren

sort, who Pyramus presented, in their sport forsook his scene and ent'red in a brake;

when I did him at this advantage take, an ass's nole I fixed on his head. Anon his

Thisby must be answered, and forth my mimic comes. When they him spy, as wild

geese that the creeping fowler eye, or russet-pated choughs, many in sort, rising and

cawing at the gun's report, sever themselves and madly sweep the sky, so at his

sight away his fellows fly; and at our stamp here, o'er and o'er one falls; he murder

cries, and help from Athens calls. Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears thus

strong, made senseless things begin to do them wrong, for briers and thorns at their

apparel snatch; some sleeves, some hats, from yielders all things catch. I led them

on in this distracted fear, and left sweet Pyramus translated there; when in that

moment, so it came to pass, Titânia wak'd, and straightway lov'd an ass.

Oberon. — This falls out better than I could devise. But hast thou yet latch'd the

Athenian's eyes with the love-juice, as I did bid thee do?

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Puck.— I took him sleeping— that is finish'd too-and the Athenian woman by his

side; that, when he wak'd, of force she must be ey'd.

(Enter Demetrius and Hermia)

Oberon. — Stand close; this is the same Athenian.

Puck. — This is the woman, but not this the man.

Demetrius.— O, why rebuke you him that loves you so? Lay breath so bitter on your

bitter foe.

Hermia. — Now I but chide, but I should use thee worse, for thou, I fear, hast given

me cause to curse. If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep, being o'er shoes in blood,

plunge in the deep, and kill me too. The sun was not so true unto the day as he to

me. Would he have stolen away from sleeping Hermia? I'll believe as soon this whole

earth may be bor'd, and that the moon may through the centre creep and so

displease her brother's noontide with th' Antipodes. It cannot be but thou hast

murd'red him; so should a murderer look— so dead, so grim.

Demetrius. — So should the murdered look; and so should I, pierc'd through the

heart with your stern cruelty; yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear, as

yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere.

Hermia.— What's this to my Lysander? Where is he? Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou

give him me?

Demetrius — I had rather give his carcass to my hounds.

Hermia.— Out, dog! out, cur! Thou driv'st me past the bounds of maiden's patience.

Hast thou slain him, then? Henceforth be never numb'red among men! , once tell

true; tell true, even for my sake! Durst thou have look'd upon him being awake, and

hast thou kill'd him sleeping? O brave touch! Could not a worm, an adder, do so

much? An adder did it; for with doubler tongue than thine, thou serpent, never adder

stung.

Demetrius. — You spend your passion on a mispris'd mood: I am not guilty of

Lysander's blood; nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell.

Hermia. — I pray thee, tell me then that he is well.

Demetrius. — An if I could, what should I get therefore?

Hermia. — A privilege never to see me more. and from thy hated presence part I so;

see me no more whether he be dead or no.

(Exit)

Demetrius. — There is no following her in this fierce vein; here, therefore, for a while

I will remain. So sorrow's heaviness doth heavier grow for debt that bankrupt sleep

doth sorrow owe; which now in some slight measure it will pay, if for his tender here I

make some stay.

[Lies down]

Oberon. — What hast thou done? Thou hast mistaken quite, and laid the love-juice

on some true-love's sight. Of thy misprision must perforce ensue some true love

turn'd, and not a false turn'd true.

Puck. — Then fate o'er-rules, that, one man holding troth, a million fail, confounding

oath on oath.

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Oberon.— About the wood go swifter than the wind, and Helena of Athens look thou

find; all fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, with sighs of love that costs the fresh

blood dear. By some illusion see thou bring her here; i'll charm his eyes against she

do appear.

Puck. — I go, I go; look how I go, swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow.

(Exit)

Oberon.— Flower of this purple dye, hit with Cupid's archery, sink in apple of his

eye.when his love he doth espy, let her shine as gloriously as the Venus of the sky.

When thou wak'st, if she be by, beg of her for remedy.

(Re-enter Puck)

Puck.— Captain of our fairy band, Helena is here at hand, and the youth mistook by

me pleading for a lover's fee; shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these

mortals be!

Oberon. — Stand aside. The noise they make will cause Demetrius to awake.

Puck.— Then will two at once woo one. That must needs be sport alone; and those

things do best please me that befall prepost'rously.

(Enter Lysander and Helena)

Lysander.— Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision

never come in tears. Look when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, in their nativity all

truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, bearing the badge of

faith, to prove them true?

Helena.— You do advance your cunning more and more. When truth kills truth, O

devilish-holy fray! These vows are Hermia's. Will you give her o'er? Weigh oath with

oath, and you will nothing weigh: your vows to her and me, put in two scales, will

even weigh; and both as light as tales.

Lysander.— I hod no judgment when to her I swore.

Helena. — Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o'er.

Lysander. — Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you.

Demetrius. [Awaking] — O Helen, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my

love, shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show thy lips,

those kissing cherries, tempting grow! That pure congealed white, high Taurus' snow,

fann'd with the eastern wind, turns to a crow when thou hold'st up thy hand. O, let me

kiss this princess of pure white, this seal of bliss!

Helena. — O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent to set against me for your

merriment. If you were civil and knew courtesy, you would not do me thus much

injury. Can you not hate me, as I know you do, but you must join in souls to mock me

too? If you were men, as men you are in show, you would not use a gentle lady so: to

vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts, when I am sure you hate me with your

hearts. You both are rivals, and love Hermia; and now both rivals, to mock Helena.

A trim exploit, a manly enterprise, to conjure tears up in a poor maid's eyes with your

derision! None of noble sort would so offend a virgin, and extort a poor soul's

patience, all to make you sport.

Lysander. — You are unkind, Demetrius; be not so; for you love Hermia. This you

know I know; and here, with all good will, with all my heart, in Hermia's love I yield

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you up my part; and yours of Helena to me bequeath, whom I do love and will do till

my death.

Helena. — Never did mockers waste more idle breath.

Demetrius. — Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will none. If e'er I lov'd her, all that love

is gone. My heart to her but as guest-wise sojourn'd, and now to Helen is it home

return'd, there to remain.

Lysander. — Helen, it is not so.

Demetrius. — Disparage not the faith thou dost not know, lest, to thy peril, thou aby

it dear. Look where thy love comes; yonder is thy dear.

(Enter Hermia)

Hermia. — Dark night, that from the eye his function takes, the ear more quick of

apprehension makes; wherein it doth impair the seeing sense, it pays the hearing

double recompense. Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found; mine ear, I thank it,

brought me to thy sound. But why unkindly didst thou leave me so?

Lysander. — Why should he stay whom love doth press to go?

Hermia. — What love could press Lysander from my side?

Lysander. — Lysander's love, that would not let him bide-fair Helena, who more

engilds the night than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light. Why seek'st thou me? Could

not this make thee know the hate I bare thee made me leave thee so?

Hermia. — You speak not as you think; it cannot be.

Helena. — Lo, she is one of this confederacy! Now I perceive they have conjoin'd all

three to fashion this false sport in spite of me. Injurious Hermia! most ungrateful

maid! Have you conspir'd, have you with these contriv'd, to bait me with this foul

derision? Is all the counsel that we two have shar'd, the sisters' vows, the hours that

we have spent, when we have chid the hasty-footed time for parting us— O, is all

forgot? All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence? We, Hermia, like two

artificial gods, have with our needles created both one flower, both on one sampler,

sitting on one cushion, both warbling of one song, both in one key; as if our hands,

our sides, voices, and minds, had been incorporate. So we grew together, like to a

double cherry, seeming parted, but yet an union in partition, two lovely berries

moulded on one stern; so, with two seeming bodies, but one heart; two of the first,

like coats in heraldry, due but to one, and crowned with one crest. And will you rent

our ancient love asunder, to join with men in scorning your poor friend? It is not

friendly, 'tis not maidenly; our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it, though I alone do

feel the injury.

Hermia. — I am amazed at your passionate words; i scorn you not; it seems that you

scorn me.

Helena. — Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn, to follow me and praise my eyes

and face? And made your other love, Demetrius, who even but now did spurn me

with his foot, to call me goddess, nymph, divine, and rare, precious, celestial?

Wherefore speaks he this to her he hates? And wherefore doth Lysander Deny your

love, so rich within his soul, and tender me, forsooth, affection, but by your setting on,

by your consent? What though I be not so in grace as you, so hung upon with love,

so fortunate, but miserable most, to love unlov'd? This you should pity rather than

despise.

Hermia.— I understand not what you mean by this.

Helena. — Ay, do— persever, counterfeit sad looks, make mouths upon me when I

turn my back, wink each at other; hold the sweet jest up; this sport, well carried, shall

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be chronicled. If you have any pity, grace, or manners, you would not make me such

an argument. But fare ye well; 'tis partly my own fault, which death, or absence, soon

shall remedy.

Lysander.— Stay, gentle Helena; hear my excuse; my love, my life, my soul, fair

Helena!

Helena.— O excellent!

Hermia.— Sweet, do not scorn her so.

Demetrius.— If she cannot entreat, I can compel.

Lysander.— Thou canst compel no more than she entreat; thy threats have no more

strength than her weak prayers Helen, I love thee, by my life I do; i swear by that

which I will lose for thee to prove him false that says I love thee not.

Demetrius.— I say I love thee more than he can do.

Lysander.— If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too.

Demetrius.— Quick, come.

Hermia.— Lysander, whereto tends all this?

Lysander.— Away, you Ethiope!

Demetrius. No, no, he will seem to break loose— take on as you would follow, but

yet come not. You are a tame man; go!

Lysander. — Hang off, thou cat, thou burr; vile thing, let loose, or I will shake thee

from me like a serpent.

Hermia. — Why are you grown so rude? What change is this, sweet love?

Lysander.— Thy love! Out, tawny Tartar, out! Out, loathed med'cine! O hated potion,

hence!

Hermia.— Do you not jest?

Helena.— Yes, sooth; and so do you.

Lysander.— Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee.

Demetrius.— I would I had your bond; for I perceive a weak bond holds you; I'll not

trust your word.

Lysander.— What, should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead? Although I hate her, I'll

not harm her so.

Hermia.— What! Can you do me greater harm than hate? Hate me! wherefore? O

me! what news, my love? Am not I Hermia? Are not you Lysander? I am as fair now

as I was erewhile. Since night you lov'd me; yet since night you left me. Why then,

you left me— O, the gods forbid!-in earnest, shall I say?

Lysander. — Ay, by my life! And never did desire to see thee more. Therefore be out

of hope, of question, of doubt; be certain, nothing truer; 'tis no jest that I do hate thee

and love Helena.

Hermia. — O me! you juggler! you cankerblossom! You thief of love! What! Have you

come by night, and stol'n my love's heart from him?

Helena. — Fine, i' faith! Have you no modesty, no maiden shame, no touch of

bashfulness? What! Will you tear impatient answers from my gentle tongue? Fie, fie!

you counterfeit, you puppet you!

Hermia.— 'Puppet!' why so? Ay, that way goes the game. Now I perceive that she

hath made compare between our statures; she hath urg'd her height; and with her

personage, her tall personage, her height, forsooth, she hath prevail'd with him.

And are you grown so high in his esteem because I am so dwarfish and so low?

How low am I, thou painted maypole? Speak. How low am I? I am not yet so low but

that my nails can reach unto thine eyes.

Helena. — I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen, let her not hurt me. I was

never curst; i have no gift at all in shrewishness; i am a right maid for my cowardice;

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let her not strike me. You perhaps may think, because she is something lower than

myself, that I can match her.

Hermia. — 'Lower' hark, again.

Helena. — Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me. I evermore did love you,

Hermia, did ever keep your counsels, never wrong'd you; save that, in love unto

Demetrius, i told him of your stealth unto this wood. He followed you; for love I

followed him; but he hath chid me hence, and threat'ned me to strike me, spurn me,

nay, to kill me too; and now, so you will let me quiet go, to Athens will I bear my folly

back, and follow you no further. Let me go. You see how simple and how fond I am.

Hermia. — Why, get you gone! Who is't that hinders you?

Helena.— A foolish heart that I leave here behind.

Hermia.— What! with Lysander?

Helena.— With Demetrius.

Lysander.— Be not afraid; she shall not harm thee, Helena.

Demetrius.— No, sir, she shall not, though you take her part.

Helena.— O, when she is angry, she is keen and shrewd; she was a vixen when she

went to school; and, though she be but little, she is fierce.

Hermia.— 'Little' again! Nothing but 'low' and 'little'! Why will you suffer her to flout

me thus? Let me come to her.

Lysander.— Get you gone, you dwarf; you minimus, of hind'ring knot-grass made;

you bead, you acorn.

Demetrius.— You are too officious in her behalf that scorns your services. Let her

alone; speak not of Helena; take not her part; for if thou dost intend never so little

show of love to her, thou shalt aby it.

Lysander.— Now she holds me not. Now follow, if thou dar'st, to try whose right, of

thine or mine, is most in Helena.

Demetrius. — Follow! Nay, I'll go with thee, cheek by jowl.

(Exeunt Lysander and Demetrius)

Hermia.— You, mistress, all this coil is long of you. Nay, go not back.

Helena.— I will not trust you, I; nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands

than mine are quicker for a fray; my legs are longer though, to run away.

(Exit)

Hermia.— I am amaz'd, and know not what to say.

(Exit)

Oberon.— This is thy negligence. Still thou mistak'st, or else committ'st thy knaveries

wilfully.

Puck.— Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook. Did not you tell me I should know

the man by the Athenian garments he had on? And so far blameless proves my

enterprise that I have 'nointed an Athenian's eyes; and so far am I glad it so did sort,

as this their jangling I esteem a sport.

Oberon.— Thou seest these lovers seek a place to fight. Hie therefore, Robin,

overcast the night; the starry welkin cover thou anon with drooping fog as black as

Acheron, and lead these testy rivals so astray as one come not within another's way.

Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue, then stir Demetrius up with bitter

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wrong; and sometime rail thou like Demetrius; and from each other look thou lead

them thus, Till o'er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep with leaden legs and batty

wings doth creep. Then crush this herb into Lysander's eye; whose liquor hath this

virtuous property, to take from thence all error with his might and make his eyeballs

roll with wonted sight. When they next wake, all this derision shall seem a dream and

fruitless vision; and back to Athens shall the lovers wend with league whose date till

death shall never end. Whiles I in this affair do thee employ, I'll to my queen, and beg

her Indian boy; and then I will her charmed eye release from monster's view, and all

things shall be peace.

Puck —. My fairy lord, this must be done with haste, for night's swift dragons cut the

clouds full fast; and yonder shines Aurora's harbinger, at whose approach ghosts,

wand'ring here and there, troop home to churchyards. Damned spirits all that in

cross-ways and floods have burial, already to their wormy beds are gone, for fear lest

day should look their shames upon; they wilfully themselves exil'd from light, and

must for aye consort with black-brow'd night.

Oberon. But we are spirits of another sort: i with the Morning's love have oft made

sport; and, like a forester, the groves may tread even till the eastern gate, all fiery

red, opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams, turns into yellow gold his salt

green streams. But, notwithstanding, haste, make no delay; we may effect this

business yet ere day.

(Exit Oberon)

Puck.— Up and down, up and down, i will lead them up and down. I am fear'd in field

and town. Goblin, lead them up and down. Here comes one.

(Enter Lysander)

Lysander.— Where art thou, proud Demetrius? Speak thou now.

Puck.— Here, villain, drawn and ready. Where art thou?

Lysander.— I will be with thee straight.

Puck.— Follow me, then, to plainer ground.

(Exit Lysander as following the voice)

(Enter Demetrius)

Demetrius.— Lysander, speak again. Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled?

Speak! In some bush? Where dost thou hide thy head?

Puck.— Thou coward, art thou bragging to the stars, telling the bushes that thou

look'st for wars, and wilt not come? Come, recreant, come, thou child; i'll whip thee

with a rod. He is defil'd that draws a sword on thee.

Demetrius.— Yea, art thou there?

Puck.— Follow my voice; we'll try no manhood here.

(Exeunt)

(Re-enter Lysander)

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Lysander.— He goes before me, and still dares me on; when I come where he calls,

then he is gone. The villain is much lighter heel'd than I. I followed fast, but faster he

did fly, that fallen am I in dark uneven way, and here will rest me. [Lies down] Come,

thou gentle day. For if but once thou show me thy grey light, i'll find Demetrius, and

revenge this spite.

[Sleeps]

(Re-enter Puck and Demetrius)

Puck.— Ho, ho, ho! Coward, why com'st thou not?

Demetrius.— Abide me, if thou dar'st; for well I wot thou run'st before me, shifting

every place, and dar'st not stand, nor look me in the face. Where art thou now?

Puck.— Come hither; I am here.

Demetrius.— Nay, then, thou mock'st me. Thou shalt buy this dear, if ever I thy face

by daylight see; now, go thy way. Faintness constraineth me to measure out my

length on this cold bed. By day's approach look to be visited.

[Lies down and sleeps]

(Enter Helena)

Helena.— O weary night, O long and tedious night, abate thy hours! Shine comforts

from the east, that I may back to Athens by daylight, from these that my poor

company detest. And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye, steal me awhile

from mine own company.

[Sleeps]

Puck.— Yet but three? Come one more; two of both kinds makes up four.

Here she comes, curst and sad. Cupid is a knavish lad, thus to make poor females

mad.

(Enter Hermia)

Hermia.— Never so weary, never so in woe, bedabbled with the dew, and torn with

briers, i can no further crawl, no further go; my legs can keep no pace with my

desires. Here will I rest me till the break of day. Heavens shield Lysander, if they

mean a fray!

[Lies down and sleeps]

Puck.— On the ground sleep sound; i'll apply to your eye, gentle lover, remedy.

[Squeezing the juice on Lysander'S eyes]

When thou wak'st, thou tak'st true delight in the sight of thy former lady's

eye; and the country proverb known, that every man should take his own, in your

waking shall be shown: Jack shall have Jill; nought shall go ill; the man shall have his

mare again, and all shall be well.

(Exit)

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ACT IV. SCENE I.

The wood. Lysander, Demetrius, Helena, and Hermia, lying asleep

(Enter Titânia and Bottom; Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, Mustardseed, and other

Fairies attending;)

Oberon — behind, unseen

Titânia. — Come, sit thee down upon this flow'ry bed, while I thy amiable cheeks do

coy, and stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head, and kiss thy fair large ears, my

gentle joy.

Bottom.— Where's Peaseblossom? Peaseblossom. Ready.

Bottom.— Scratch my head, Peaseblossom.where's Mounsieur Cobweb? Cobweb.

Ready.

Bottom.— Mounsieur Cobweb; good mounsieur, get you your weapons in your hand

and kill me a red-hipp'd humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good mounsieur,

bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, mounsieur; and,

good mounsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not; I would be loath to have you

overflown with a honey-bag, signior. Where's Mounsieur Mustardseed?

Mustardseed. Ready.

Bottom.— Give me your neaf, Mounsieur Mustardseed. Pray you, leave your curtsy,

good mounsieur. Mustardseed. What's your will?

Bottom.— Nothing, good mounsieur, but to help Cavalery Cobweb to scratch. I must

to the barber's, mounsieur; for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face; and I

am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me I must scratch.

Titânia.— What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet love?

Bottom.— I have a reasonable good ear in music. Let's have the tongs and the

bones.

Titânia.— Or say, sweet love, what thou desirest to eat.

Bottom.— Truly, a peck of provender; I could munch your good dry oats. Methinks I

have a great desire to a bottle of hay. Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.

Titânia.— I have a venturous fairy that shall seek the squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee

new nuts.

Bottom.— I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas. But, I pray you, let none

of your people stir me; I have an exposition of sleep come upon me.

Titânia.— Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms. Fairies, be gone, and be all

ways away.

(Exeunt) Fairies

So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle gently entwist; the female ivy so

Enrings the barky fingers of the elm. O, how I love thee! how I dote on thee!

[They sleep]

(Enter Puck)

Oberon [Advancing] — Welcome, good Robin. Seest thou this sweet sight? Her

dotage now I do begin to pity; for, meeting her of late behind the wood, seeking

sweet favours for this hateful fool, i did upbraid her and fall out with her. For she his

hairy temples then had rounded with coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers; and that

same dew which sometime on the buds was wont to swell like round and orient

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pearls stood now within the pretty flowerets' eyes, like tears that did their own

disgrace bewail. When I had at my pleasure taunted her, and she in mild terms

begg'd my patience, i then did ask of her her changeling child; which straight she

gave me, and her fairy sent to bear him to my bower in fairy land. And now I have the

boy, I will undo this hateful imperfection of her eyes. And, gentle Puck, take this

transformed scalp from off the head of this Athenian swain, that he awaking when the

other do may all to Athens back again repair, and think no more of this night's

accidents but as the fierce vexation of a dream. But first I will release the Fairy

Queen.

[Touching her eyes]

Be as thou wast wont to be; see as thou was wont to see. Dian's bud o'er

Cupid's flower hath such force and blessed power. Now, my Titânia; wake you, my

sweet queen.

Titânia.— My Oberon! What visions have I seen! Methought I was enamour'd of an

ass.

Oberon.— There lies your love.

Titânia.— How came these things to pass? O, how mine eyes do loathe his visage

now!

Oberon.— Silence awhile. Robin, take off this head. Titânia, music call; and strike

more dead than common sleep of all these five the sense.

Titânia.— Music, ho, music, such as charmeth sleep!

Puck.— Now when thou wak'st with thine own fool's eyes peep.

Oberon. — Sound, music. Come, my Queen, take hands with me,

[Music]

And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be.

Now thou and I are new in amity,

And will to-morrow midnight solemnly

Dance in Duke Theseus' house triumphantly,

And bless it to all fair prosperity.

There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be

Wedded, with Theseus, an in jollity.

Puck.— Fairy King, attend and mark; i do hear the morning lark.

Oberon. — Then, my Queen, in silence sad, trip we after night's shade. We the

globe can compass soon, swifter than the wand'ring moon.

Titânia.— Come, my lord; and in our flight, tell me how it came this night that I

sleeping here was found with these mortals on the ground.

(Exeunt)

To the winding of horns, enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus, and train

Theseus.— Go, one of you, find out the forester; for now our observation is

perform'd, and since we have the vaward of the day, my love shall hear the music of

my hounds. Uncouple in the western valley; let them go.dispatch, I say, and find the

forester.

(Exit an Attendant)

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We will, fair Queen, up to the mountain's top, and mark the musical confusion of

hounds and echo in conjunction.

Hippolyta.— I was with Hercules and Cadmus once when in a wood of Crete they

bay'd the bear with hounds of Sparta; never did I hear such gallant chiding, for,

besides the groves, the skies, the fountains, every region near seem'd all one mutual

cry. I never heard so musical a discord, such sweet thunder.

Theseus.— My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, so flew'd, so sanded; and

their heads are hung with ears that sweep away the morning dew; crook-knee'd and

dew-lapp'd like Thessalian bulls; slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells, each

under each. A cry more tuneable was never holla'd to, nor cheer'd with horn, in Crete,

in Sparta, nor in Thessaly. Judge when you hear. But, soft, what nymphs are these?

Egeus.— My lord, this is my daughter here asleep, and this Lysander, this Demetrius

is, this Helena, old Nedar's Helena. I wonder of their being here together.

Theseus.— No doubt they rose up early to observe the rite of May; and, hearing our

intent, came here in grace of our solemnity. But speak, Egeus; is not this the day that

Hermia should give answer of her choice?

Egeus.— It is, my lord.

Theseus. — Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with their horns.

[Horns and shout within. The sleepers awake and kneel to Theseus]

Good-morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past; begin these wood-birds but to

couple now?

Lysander.— Pardon, my lord.

Theseus.— I pray you all, stand up. I know you two are rival enemies; how comes

this gentle concord in the world that hatred is so far from jealousy to sleep by hate,

and fear no enmity?

Lysander.— My lord, I shall reply amazedly, Half sleep, half waking; but as yet, I

swear, i cannot truly say how I came here, but, as I think— for truly would I speak,

and now I do bethink me, so it is-i came with Hermia hither. Our intent was to be

gone from Athens, where we might, without the peril of the Athenian law-

Egeus.— Enough, enough, my Lord; you have enough; I beg the law, the law upon

his head. They would have stol'n away, they would, Demetrius, thereby to have

defeated you and me: you of your wife, and me of my consent, of my consent that

she should be your wife.

Demetrius.— My lord, fair Helen told me of their stealth, of this their purpose hither

to this wood; and I in fury hither followed them, fair Helena in fancy following me.

But, my good lord, I wot not by what power-but by some power it is— my love to

Hermia, melted as the snow, seems to me now as the remembrance of an idle gaud

which in my childhood I did dote upon; and all the faith, the virtue of my heart, the

object and the pleasure of mine eye, is only Helena. To her, my lord, was I betroth'd

ere I saw Hermia. But, like a sickness, did I loathe this food; but, as in health, come

to my natural taste, now I do wish it, love it, long for it, and will for evermore be true to

it.

Theseus.— Fair lovers, you are fortunately met; of this discourse we more will hear

anon. Egeus, I will overbear your will; for in the temple, by and by, with us these

couples shall eternally be knit. And, for the morning now is something worn, our

purpos'd hunting shall be set aside. Away with us to Athens, three and three; we'll

hold a feast in great solemnity. Come, Hippolyta.

(Exeunt Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus, and train)

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Demetrius.— These things seem small and undistinguishable, like far-off mountains

turned into clouds.

Hermia.— Methinks I see these things with parted eye, when every thing seems

double.

Helena.— So methinks; and I have found Demetrius like a jewel, mine own, and not

mine own.

Demetrius.— Are you sure that we are awake? It seems to me that yet we sleep, we

dream. Do not you think the Duke was here, and bid us follow him?

Hermia.— Yea, and my father.

Helena.— And Hippolyta.

Lysander.— And he did bid us follow to the temple.

Demetrius.— Why, then, we are awake; let's follow him; and by the way let us

recount our dreams.

(Exeunt)

Bottom. [Awaking] — When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer. My next is

Most fair Pyramus.' Heigh-ho! Peter Quince! Flute, the bellows-mender! Snout, the

tinker! Starveling! God's my life, stol'n hence, and left me asleep! I have had a most

rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was. Man is

but an ass if he go about to expound this dream. Methought I was— there is no man

can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had, but man is but a patch'd fool, if

he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, the tear of

man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his

heart to report, what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this

dream. It shall be call'd 'Bottom's Dream,' because it hath no bottom; and I will sing it

in the latter end of a play, before the Duke. Peradventure, to make it the more

gracious, I shall sing it at her death.

(Exit)

SCENE II.

Athens. Quince'S house

(Enter Quince, Flute, Snout, and Starveling)

Quince.— Have you sent to Bottom's house? Is he come home yet?

Starveling.— He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt he is transported.

Flute.— If he come not, then the play is marr'd; it goes not forward, doth it?

Quince.— It is not possible. You have not a man in all Athens able to discharge

Pyramus but he.

Flute.— No; he hath simply the best wit of any handicraft man in Athens.

Quince.— Yea, and the best person too; and he is a very paramour for a sweet

voice.

Flute.— You must say 'paragon.' A paramour is— God bless us!— A thing of naught.

(Enter Snug)

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Snug. — Masters, the Duke is coming from the temple; and there is two or three

lords and ladies more married. If our sport had gone forward, we had all been made

men.

Flute.— O sweet bully Bottom! Thus hath he lost sixpence a day during his life; he

could not have scaped sixpence a day. An the Duke had not given him sixpence a

day for playing Pyramus, I'll be hanged. He would have deserved it: sixpence a day

in Pyramus, or nothing.

(Enter Bottom)

Bottom.— Where are these lads? Where are these hearts?

Quince.— Bottom! O most courageous day! O most happy hour!

Bottom.— Masters, I am to discourse wonders; but ask me not what; for if I tell you, I

am not true Athenian. I will tell you everything, right as it fell out.

Quince.— Let us hear, sweet Bottom.

Bottom.— Not a word of me. All that I will tell you is, that the Duke hath dined. Get

your apparel together; good strings to your beards, new ribbons to your pumps; meet

presently at the palace; every man look o'er his part; for the short and the long is, our

play is preferr'd. In any case, let Thisby have clean linen; and let not him that plays

the lion pare his nails, for they shall hang out for the lion's claws. And, most dear

actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath; and I do not doubt

but to hear them say it is a sweet comedy. No more words. Away, go, away!

(Exeunt)

ACT V. SCENE I.

Athens. The palace of Theseus

(Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate, LORDS, and ATTENDANTS)

Hippolyta.— 'Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.

Theseus.— More strange than true. I never may believe these antique fables, nor

these fairy toys. Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, such shaping

fantasies, that apprehend more than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the

lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact. One sees more devils than vast

hell can hold; that is the madman. The lover, all as frantic, sees Helen's beauty in a

brow of Egypt. The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to

earth, from earth to heaven; and as imagination bodies forth the forms of things

unknown, the poet's pen turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing a local

habitation and a name. Such tricks hath strong imagination that, if it would but

apprehend some joy, it comprehends some bringer of that joy; or in the night,

imagining some fear, how easy is a bush suppos'd a bear?

Hippolyta. — 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)

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Theseus.— Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth. Joy, gentle friends, joy and

fresh days of love accompany your hearts!

Lysander.— More than to us wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed!

Theseus.— Come now; what masques, 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.

Philostrate.— Here, mighty Theseus.

Theseus.— Say, what abridgment have you for this evening? What masque? what

music? How shall we beguile The lazy time, if not with some delight?

Philostrate.— There is a brief how many sports are ripe; make choice of which your

Highness will see first.

[Giving a paper]

Theseus.— 'The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung By an Athenian eunuch to the

harp.' We'll none of that: that have I told my love, in glory of my kinsman Hercules.

'The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals, tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.' That is an

old device, and it was play'd when I from Thebes came last a conqueror. The thrice

three Muses mourning for the death of Learning, late deceas'd in beggary.' That is

some satire, keen and critical, not sorting with a nuptial ceremony. 'A tedious brief

scene of young Pyramus and his love Thisby; very tragical mirth.' Merry and tragical!

tedious and brief! That is hot ice and wondrous strange snow. How shall we find the

concord of this discord?

Philostrate.— 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.

Theseus.— What are they that do play it?

Philostrate.— Hard-handed men that work in Athens here, which never labour'd in

their minds till now; and now have toil'd their unbreathed memories with this same

play against your nuptial.

Theseus.— And we will hear it.

Philostrate.— 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.

Theseus.— I will hear that play; for never anything can be amiss when simpleness

and duty tender it. Go, bring them in; and take your places, ladies.

(Exit Philostrate)

Hippolyta.— I love not to see wretchedness o'er-charged, and duty in his service

perishing.

Theseus.— Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing.

Hippolyta.— He says they can do nothing in this kind.

Theseus.— 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

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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 rattling tongue of saucy and audacious eloquence. Love, therefore, and

tongue-tied simplicity in least speak most to my capacity.

(Re-enter Philostrate)

Philostrate. — So please your Grace, the Prologue is address'd.

Theseus.— Let him approach.

[Flourish of trumpets]

(Enter Quince as the Prologue)

Prologue.— If we offend, it is with our good will. That you should think, we come not

to offend, but with good will. To show our simple skill, that is the true beginning of

our end. Consider then, we come but in despite. We do not come, as minding to

content you, our true intent is. All for your delight we are not here. That you should

here repent you, the actors are at band; and, by their show, you shall know all, that

you are like to know.

Theseus.— This fellow doth not stand upon points.

Lysander.— He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; he knows not the stop. A

good moral, my lord: it is not enough to speak, but to speak true.

Hippolyta.— Indeed he hath play'd on this prologue like a child on a recorder— a

sound, but not in government.

Theseus.— His speech was like a tangled chain; nothing im paired, but all

disordered. Who is next?

(Enter, with a trumpet before them, as in dumb show, Pyramus and Thisby, Wall,

Moonshine, and Lion

Prologue.— 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, that vile Wall

which did these lovers sunder; and through Walls 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 Moonshine; for, if you will know, by moonshine did these lovers

think no scorn to meet at Ninus' tomb, there, there to woo. This grisly beast, which

Lion hight by name, the trusty Thisby, coming first by night, did scare away, or rather

did affright; and as she fled, her mantle she did 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 mulberry shade, his dagger drew, and

died. For all the rest, let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain, at large discourse

while here they do remain.

(Exeunt Prologue, Pyramus, Thisby, Lion, and Moonshine)

Theseus.— I wonder if the lion be to speak.

Demetrius.— No wonder, my lord: one lion may, when many asses do.

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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, Pyramus and Thisby, did whisper often very secretly. This

loam, this rough-cast, and this stone, doth show 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.

Theseus.— Would you desire lime and hair to speak better?

Demetrius.— It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord.

(Enter Pyramus)

Theseus.— Pyramus draws near the wall; silence.

Pyramus.— 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! And thou, O wall, O sweet, O lovely wall, that stand'st between her father's

ground and mine; thou wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall, show me thy chink, to

blink through with mine eyne.

[Wall holds up his fingers]

Thanks, courteous wall. Jove shield thee well for this! But what see what

seeI? No Thisby do I see. O wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss, Curs'd he thy

stones for thus deceiving me!

Theseus.— The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again.

Pyramus.— No, in truth, sir, he should not. Deceiving me is Thisby's cue. She is to

enter now, and I am to spy her through the wall. You shall see it will fall pat as I told

you; yonder she comes.

(Enter Thisby)

Thisby.— O wall, full often hast thou beard 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.

Pyramus.— I see a voice; now will I to the chink, to spy an I can hear my Thisby's

face. Thisby!

Thisby.— My love! thou art my love, I think.

Pyramus.— Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover's grace; and like Limander am I

trusty still.

Thisby.— And I like Helen, till the Fates me kill.

Pyramus.— Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true.

Thisby.— As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you.

Pyramus.— O, kiss me through the hole of this vile wall.

Thisby.— I kiss the wall's hole, not your lips at all.

Pyramus.— Wilt thou at Ninny's tomb meet me straightway?

Thisby.— Tide life, tide death, I come without delay.

(Exeunt Pyramus and Thisby)

Wall.— Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; and, being done, thus Wall away

doth go.

(Exit Wall)

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Theseus — Now is the moon used between the two neighbours.

Demetrius.— No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear without warning.

Hippolyta.— This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard.

Theseus.— The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if

imagination amend them.

Hippolyta.— It must be your imagination then, and not theirs.

Theseus.— 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 as Snug the joiner am a lion fell, nor

else no lion's dam; for, if I should as lion come in strife into this place, 'twere pity on

my life.

Theseus.— A very gentle beast, and of a good conscience.

Demetrius.— The very best at a beast, my lord, that e'er I saw.

Lysander.— This lion is a very fox for his valour.

Theseus.— True; and a goose for his discretion.

Demetrius.— Not so, my lord; for his valour cannot carry his discretion, and the fox

carries the goose.

Theseus.— 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 listen to the Moon.

Moonshine.— This lanthorn doth the horned moon present-

Demetrius.— He should have worn the horns on his head.

Theseus.— He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the circumference.

Moonshine.— This lanthorn doth the horned moon present; myself the Man i' th'

Moon do seem to be.

Theseus.— This is the greatest error of all the rest; the man should be put into the

lantern. How is it else the man i' th' moon?

Demetrius.— He dares not come there for the candle; for, you see, it is already in

snuff.

Hippolyta.— I am aweary of this moon. Would he would change!

Theseus.— It appears, by his small light of discretion, that he is in the wane; but yet,

in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time.

Lysander.— Proceed, Moon.

Moonshine —. All that I have to say is to tell you that the lanthorn is the moon; I, the

Man i' th' Moon; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog.

Demetrius.— Why, all these should be in the lantern; for all these are in the moon.

But silence; here comes Thisby.

(Re-enter Thisby)

Thisby.— This is old Ninny's tomb. Where is my love?

Lion. [Roaring] [Thisby runs off]

Demetrius.— Well roar'd, Lion.

Theseus.— Well run, Thisby.

Hippolyta.— Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines with a good grace.

[The Lion tears Thisby'S Mantle, and exit]

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Theseus.— Well mous'd, Lion.

(Re-enter Pyramus)

Demetrius.— And then came Pyramus.

Lysander.— And so the lion vanish'd.

Pyramus.— Sweet Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams; i thank thee, Moon, for

shining now so bright; for, by thy gracious golden, glittering gleams, i trust to take of

truest Thisby sight. But stay, O spite! But mark, poor knight, what dreadful dole is

here! Eyes, do you see? How can it he? O dainty duck! O dear! Thy mantle good,

what! stain'd with blood? Approach, ye Furies fell. O Fates! come, come; cut thread

and thrum; quail, crush, conclude, and quell.

Theseus.— This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a

man look sad.

Hippolyta.— Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.

Pyramus.— O wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame? Since lion vile hath here

deflower'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. [Stabs himself]

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. [Exit Moonshine]

Now die, die, die, die, die. [Dies]

Demetrius.— No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one.

Lysander.— Less than an ace, man; for he is dead; he is nothing.

Theseus.— With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover and yet prove an ass.

Hippolyta.— How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisby comes back and finds

her lover?

(Re-enter Thisby)

Theseus.— She will find him by starlight. Here she comes; and her passion ends the

play.

Hippolyta.— Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus; I hope

she will be brief.

Demetrius.— A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisby, is the

better— he for a man, God warrant us: She for a woman, God bless us!

Lysander.— She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes.

Demetrius.— And thus she moans, videlicet.

Thisby. — Asleep, my love? What, dead, my dove? O Pyramus, arise, Speak,

speak. Quite dumb? Dead, dead? A tomb must cover thy sweet eyes. These lily 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 shears his thread of silk.

Tongue, not a word. Come, trusty sword; come, blade, my breast imbrue. [Stabs

herself]

And farewell, friends; thus Thisby ends; adieu, adieu, adieu.

[Dies]

Theseus.— Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead.

Demetrius.— Ay, and Wall too.

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Bottom. [Starting up] — 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?

Theseus.— 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 blamed. Marry, if he that writ

it had played Pyramus, and hang'd 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. [A dance]

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

overwatch'd. This palpable-gross play hath well beguil'd the heavy gait of night.

Sweet friends, to bed. A fortnight hold we this solemnity, in nightly revels and new

jollity.

(Exeunt)

(Enter Puck with a broom)

Puck.— Now the hungry lion roars, and the wolf behowls the moon; whilst the heavy

ploughman snores, all with weary task fordone. Now the wasted brands do glow,

whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, puts the wretch that lies in woe in

remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night that the graves, all gaping wide,

every one lets forth his sprite, in the church-way paths to glide. And we fairies, that

do run by the triple Hecate's team from the presence of the sun, following darkness

like a dream, now are frolic. Not a mouse shall disturb this hallowed house. I am sent

with broom before, to sweep the dust behind the door.

(Enter Oberon and Titânia, with all their train)

Oberon.— Through the house give glimmering light, by the dead and drowsy fire;

every elf and fairy sprite hop as light as bird from brier; and this ditty, after me, sing

and dance it trippingly.

Titânia.— First, rehearse your song by rote, to each word a warbling note; hand in

hand, with fairy grace, Will we sing, and bless this place.

[Oberon leading, the FAIRIES sing and dance]

Oberon.— Now, until the break of day, through this house each fairy stray.

To the best bride-bed will we, which by us shall blessed be; and the issue there

create ever shall be fortunate. So shall all the couples three ever true in loving be;

and the blots of Nature's hand shall not in their issue stand; never mole, hare-lip, nor

scar, nor mark prodigious, such as are despised in nativity, shall upon their children

be. With this field-dew consecrate, every fairy take his gait, and each several

chamber bless, through this palace, with sweet peace; and the owner of it blest ever

shall in safety rest. Trip away; make no stay; meet me all by break of day. (Exeunt)

all but Puck.

Puck.— If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended, that you

have but slumb'red here while these visions did appear. And this weak and idle

theme, no more yielding but a dream, gentles, do not reprehend. If you pardon, we

will mend. And, as I am an honest Puck, if we have unearned luck now to scape the

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serpent's tongue, we will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call. So, good

night unto you all. give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore

amends.

(Exit)

THE END

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