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man should be put into the lantern; How is it else the man i'the moon ?

250 Dem. He dares not come there for the candle; for you see, it is already in snuff.

Hip. I am weary of this moon: Would, he would change!

The. 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.

Lys. Proceed, moon.

Moon. All that I have to say, is to tell you, that the lantern is the moon; I, the man in the moon; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog.

Dem. Why, all these should be in the lantern; for they are in the noon. But, silence; here comes Thisbe.


Enter THISBE. This. " This is old Ninny's tomb : Where is my

: " love?" Lion. « Oh~" (The Lion roars. Thisbe runs off. Dem. Well roar'd, lion. The. Well run, Thisbe.

Hip. Well shone, moon.-Truly, the moon shines with a good grace.

270 The. Well mous'd, lion. Dem. And then came Pyramus, Lys. And so the lion vanish'd.



Pyr. “ Sweet moon, I thank thee for thy sunny

« beams; “ I thank thee, moon, for shining now so bright: « For, by thy gracious, golden, glittering streams, “ I trust to taste of truest Thisby's sight.

“ But stay ;- spight!

" But mark ;-Poor knight, " What dreadful dole is here?

280 “ Eyes, do you see?

6 How can it be?
« Q 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 !". The. This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.

Hip. Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.
Pyr. “ 0, wherefore, nature, didst thou lions

" frame?
Since lion vile hath here deflourd


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

The pap of Pyramus :
“ Ay, that left pap,

300 " Where heart doth hop :“ Thus die I, thus, thus, thus.

“ Now am I dead,

« Now am I fled; “My soul is in the sky :

“ Tongue, lose thy light!

“ Moon take thy flight! “ Now, die, die, die, die, die.”

[ Dies. Exit MOONSHINE. Dem. No die, but an ace, for him ; for he is but

310 Lys. Less than an ace, man; for he is dead; he is nothing The. With the help of a surgeon, he might yet re. cover, and prove an ass.

Hip. How chance the moonshine is gone, before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover?

The. She will find him by star-light.--


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Enter Thisbe.

Here she comes, and her passion ends the play.

Hip. Methinks, she should not use a long one, for such a Pyramus: I hope, she will be brief.

390 Dem. A moth will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisbe, is the better. Lys. She hath spied him already, with those sweet

eyes. Dem. And thus she moans, videlicet,

This. “ Asleep, my love?

“ What, dead, my dove? “ O Pyramus, arise,

“ Speak, speak. Quite dumb?

" Dead, dead? A tomb “ Must cover thy sweet eyes.

330 “ These lily brows,

“ 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 thein in gore,

“ Since you have shore
" With shears his thread of silk.

Tongue, not a word :

“ Come, trusty sword ;
“ Come blade, my breast imbrue :

“ And farewel, friends,

“ Thus Thisby ends : “ Adieu, adieu, adieu."

[Dies. The, Moonshine and lion are left to bury the dead. Dem. Ay, and wall too.

350 Bot. No, I assure you ; the wall is down that parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance, between two of our company?


The. 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 play'd Pyramus, and hang'd himself in Thisbe's garter, it would have been a fine tragedy: and so it is, truly; and very notably discharg'd. But come, your Bergomask: let your epilogue alone.

[Here a Dance of Clowns. The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve ;Lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time.

I fear, we shall out-sleep the coming morn,
As much as we this night have overwatch'd.
This palpable-gross play hath well beguild
The heavy gait of night.-Sweet friends, to bed.
A fortnight hold we this solemnity,
In nightly revels, and new jollity.



Enter Puck.


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Puck. Now the hungry lion roars,

And the wolf beholds the moon;
Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,

All with weary task fordone.
Now the wasted brands do glow,

Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud,
Puis the wretch, that lies in woe,
In remembrance of a slıroud,


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