{"collection":"sks","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/sks/ff/mnd.htm","path":"sks/ff/mnd.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/sks/ff/mnd.htm","text":"Actus primus.\nEnter Theseus, Hippolita, with others.\nTheseus. Now faire Hippolita, our nuptiall houre\nDrawes on apace: foure happy daies bring in\nAnother Moon: but oh, me thinkes, how slow\nThis old Moon wanes; She lingers my desires\nLike to a Step-dame, or a Dowager,\nLong withering out a yong mans reuennew\nHip. Foure daies wil quickly steep the[m]selues in nights\nFoure nights wil quickly dreame away the time:\nAnd then the Moone, like to a siluer bow,\nNow bent in heauen, shal behold the night\nOf our solemnities\nThe. Go Philostrate,\nStirre vp the Athenian youth to merriments,\nAwake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth,\nTurne melancholy forth to Funerals:\nThe pale companion is not for our pompe,\nHippolita, I woo'd thee with my sword,\nAnd wonne thy loue, doing thee iniuries:\nBut I will wed thee in another key,\nWith pompe, with triumph, and with reuelling.\nEnter Egeus and his daughter Hermia, Lysander, and Demetrius.\nEge. Happy be Theseus, our renowned Duke\nThe. Thanks good Egeus: what's the news with thee?\nEge. Full of vexation, come I, with complaint\nAgainst my childe, my daughter Hermia.\nStand forth Demetrius.\nMy Noble Lord,\nThis man hath my consent to marrie her.\nStand forth Lysander.\nAnd my gracious Duke,\nThis man hath bewitch'd the bosome of my childe:\nThou, thou Lysander, thou hast giuen her rimes,\nAnd interchang'd loue-tokens with my childe:\nThou hast by Moone-light at her window sung,\nWith faining voice, verses of faining loue,\nAnd stolne the impression of her fantasie,\nWith bracelets of thy haire, rings, gawdes, conceits,\nKnackes, trifles, Nose-gaies, sweet meats (messengers\nOf strong preuailment in vnhardned youth)\nWith cunning hast thou filch'd my daughters heart,\nTurn'd her obedience (which is due to me)\nTo stubborne harshnesse. And my gracious Duke,\nBe it so she will not heere before your Grace,\nConsent to marrie with Demetrius,\nI beg the ancient priuiledge of Athens;\nAs she is mine, I may dispose of her;\nWhich shall be either to this Gentleman,\nOr to her death, according to our Law,\nImmediately prouided in that case\nThe. What say you Hermia? be aduis'd faire Maide,\nTo you your Father should be as a God;\nOne that compos'd your beauties; yea and one\nTo whom you are but as a forme in waxe\nBy him imprinted: and within his power,\nTo leaue the figure, or disfigure it:\nDemetrius is a worthy Gentleman\nHer. So is Lysander\nThe. In himselfe he is.\nBut in this kinde, wanting your fathers voyce,\nThe other must be held the worthier\nHer. I would my father look'd but with my eyes\nThe. Rather your eies must with his iudgment looke\nHer. I do entreat your Grace to pardon me.\nI know not by what power I am made bold,\nNor how it may concerne my modestie\nIn such a presence heere to pleade my thoughts:\nBut I beseech your Grace, that I may know\nThe worst that may befall me in this case,\nIf I refuse to wed Demetrius\nThe. Either to dye the death, or to abiure\nFor euer the society of men.\nTherefore faire Hermia question your desires,\nKnow of your youth, examine well your blood,\nWhether (if you yeeld not to your fathers choice)\nYou can endure the liuerie of a Nunne,\nFor aye to be in shady Cloister mew'd,\nTo liue a barren sister all your life,\nChanting faint hymnes to the cold fruitlesse Moone,\nThrice blessed they that master so their blood,\nTo vndergo such maiden pilgrimage,\nBut earthlier happie is the Rose distil'd,\nThen that which withering on the virgin thorne,\nGrowes, liues, and dies, in single blessednesse\nHer. So will I grow, so liue, so die my Lord,\nEre I will yeeld my virgin Patent vp\nVnto his Lordship, whose vnwished yoake,\nMy soule consents not to giue soueraignty\nThe. Take time to pause, and by the next new Moon\nThe sealing day betwixt my loue and me,\nFor euerlasting bond of fellowship:\nVpon that day either prepare to dye,\nFor disobedience to your fathers will,\nOr else to wed Demetrius as hee would,\nOr on Dianaes Altar to protest\nFor aie, austerity, and single life\nDem. Relent sweet Hermia, and Lysander, yeelde\nThy crazed title to my certaine right\nLys. You haue her fathers loue, Demetrius:\nLet me haue Hermiaes: do you marry him\nEgeus. Scornfull Lysander, true, he hath my Loue;\nAnd what is mine, my loue shall render him.\nAnd she is mine, and all my right of her,\nI do estate vnto Demetrius\nLys. I am my Lord, as well deriu'd as he,\nAs well possest: my loue is more then his:\nMy fortunes euery way as fairely ranck'd\n(If not with vantage) as Demetrius:\nAnd (which is more then all these boasts can be)\nI am belou'd of beauteous Hermia.\nWhy should not I then prosecute my right?\nDemetrius, Ile auouch it to his head,\nMade loue to Nedars daughter, Helena,\nAnd won her soule: and she (sweet Ladie) dotes,\nDeuoutly dotes, dotes in Idolatry,\nVpon this spotted and inconstant man\nThe. I must confesse, that I haue heard so much,\nAnd with Demetrius thought to haue spoke thereof:\nBut being ouer-full of selfe-affaires,\nMy minde did lose it. But Demetrius come,\nAnd come Egeus, you shall go with me,\nI haue some priuate schooling for you both.\nFor you faire Hermia, looke you arme your selfe,\nTo fit your fancies to your Fathers will;\nOr else the Law of Athens yeelds you vp\n(Which by no meanes we may extenuate)\nTo death, or to a vow of single life.\nCome my Hippolita, what cheare my loue?\nDemetrius and Egeus go along:\nI must imploy you in some businesse\nAgainst our nuptiall, and conferre with you\nOf something, neerely that concernes your selues\nEge. With dutie and desire we follow you.\nExeunt.\nManet Lysander and Hermia.\nLys. How now my loue? Why is your cheek so pale?\nHow chance the Roses there do fade so fast?\nHer. Belike for want of raine, which I could well\nBeteeme them, from the tempest of mine eyes\nLys. For ought that euer I could reade,\nCould euer heare by tale or historie,\nThe course of true loue neuer did run smooth,\nBut either it was different in blood\nHer. O crosse! too high to be enthral'd to loue\nLys. Or else misgraffed, in respect of yeares\nHer. O spight! too old to be ingag'd to yong\nLys. Or else it stood vpon the choise of merit\nHer. O hell! to choose loue by anothers eie\nLys. Or if there were a simpathie in choise,\nWarre, death, or sicknesse, did lay siege to it;\nMaking it momentarie, as a sound:\nSwift as a shadow, short as any dreame,\nBriefe as the lightning in the collied night,\nThat (in a spleene) vnfolds both heauen and earth;\nAnd ere a man hath power to say, behold,\nThe iawes of darkness do deuoure it vp:\nSo quicke bright things come to confusion\nHer. If then true Louers haue beene euer crost,\nIt stands as an edict in destinie:\nThen let vs teach our triall patience,\nBecause it is a customarie crosse,\nAs due to loue, as thoughts, and dreames, and sighes,\nWishes and teares; poore Fancies followers\nLys. A good perswasion; therefore heare me Hermia,\nI haue a Widdow Aunt, a dowager,\nOf great reuennew, and she hath no childe,\nFrom Athens is her house remou'd seuen leagues,\nAnd she respects me, as her onely sonne:\nThere gentle Hermia, may I marrie thee,\nAnd to that place, the sharpe Athenian Law\nCannot pursue vs. If thou lou'st me, then\nSteale forth thy Fathers house to morrow night:\nAnd in the wood, a league without the towne,\n(Where I did meete thee once with Helena.\nTo do obseruance for a morne of May)\nThere will I stay for thee\nHer. My good Lysander,\nI sweare to thee, by Cupids strongest bow,\nBy his best arrow with the golden head,\nBy the simplicitie of Venus Doues,\nBy that which knitteth soules, and prospers loue,\nAnd by that fire which burn'd the Carthage Queene,\nWhen the false Troyan vnder saile was seene,\nBy all the vowes that euer men haue broke,\n(In number more then euer women spoke)\nIn that same place thou hast appointed me,\nTo morrow truly will I meete with thee\nLys. Keepe promise loue: looke here comes Helena.\nEnter Helena.\nHer. God speede faire Helena, whither away?\nHel. Cal you me faire? that faire againe vnsay,\nDemetrius loues you faire: O happie faire!\nYour eyes are loadstarres, and your tongues sweete ayre\nMore tuneable then Larke to shepheards eare,\nWhen wheate is greene, when hauthorne buds appeare,\nSicknesse is catching: O were fauor so,\nYour words I catch, faire Hermia ere I go,\nMy eare should catch your voice, my eye, your eye,\nMy tongue should catch your tongues sweete melodie,\nWere the world mine, Demetrius being bated,\nThe rest Ile giue to be to you translated.\nO teach me how you looke, and with what art\nYou sway the motion of Demetrius hart\nHer. I frowne vpon him, yet he loues me still\nHel. O that your frownes would teach my smiles\nsuch skil\nHer. I giue him curses, yet he giues me loue\nHel. O that my prayers could such affection mooue\nHer. The more I hate, the more he followes me\nHel. The more I loue, the more he hateth me\nHer. His folly Helena is none of mine\nHel. None but your beauty, wold that fault wer mine\nHer. Take comfort: he no more shall see my face,\nLysander and my selfe will flie this place.\nBefore the time I did Lysander see,\nSeem'd Athens like a Paradise to mee.\nO then, what graces in my Loue do dwell,\nThat he hath turn'd a heauen into hell\nLys. Helen, to you our mindes we will vnfold,\nTo morrow night, when Phoebe doth behold\nHer siluer visage, in the watry glasse,\nDecking with liquid pearle, the bladed grasse\n(A time that Louers flights doth still conceale)\nThrough Athens gates, haue we deuis'd to steale\nHer. And in the wood, where often you and I,\nVpon faint Primrose beds, were wont to lye,\nEmptying our bosomes, of their counsell sweld:\nThere my Lysander, and my selfe shall meete,\nAnd thence from Athens turne away our eyes\nTo seeke new friends and strange companions,\nFarwell sweet play-fellow, pray thou for vs,\nAnd good lucke grant thee thy Demetrius.\nKeepe word Lysander we must starue our sight,\nFrom louers foode, till morrow deepe midnight.\nExit Hermia.\nLys. I will my Hermia. Helena adieu,\nAs you on him, Demetrius dotes on you.\nExit Lysander.\nHele. How happy some, ore othersome can be?\nThrough Athens I am thought as faire as she.\nBut what of that? Demetrius thinkes not so:\nHe will not know, what all, but he doth know,\nAnd as hee erres, doting on Hermias eyes;\nSo I, admiring of his qualities:\nThings base and vilde, holding no quantity,\nLoue can transpose to forme and dignity,\nLoue lookes not with the eyes, but with the minde,\nAnd therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blinde.\nNor hath loues minde of any iudgement taste:\nWings and no eyes, figure, vnheedy haste.\nAnd therefore is Loue said to be a childe,\nBecause in choise he is often beguil'd,\nAs waggish boyes in game themselues forsweare;\nSo the boy Loue is periur'd euery where.\nFor ere Demetrius lookt on Hermias eyne,\nHe hail'd downe oathes that he was onely mine.\nAnd when this Haile some heat from Hermia felt,\nSo he dissolu'd, and showres of oathes did melt,\nI will goe tell him of faire Hermias flight:\nThen to the wood will he, to morrow night\nPursue her; and for his intelligence,\nIf I haue thankes, it is a deere expence:\nBut heerein meane I to enrich my paine,\nTo haue his sight thither, and backe againe.\nEnter.\nEnter Quince the Carpenter, Snug the Ioyner, Bottome the Weauer,\nFlute\nthe bellowes-mender, Snout the Tinker, and Starueling the Taylor.\nQuin. Is all our company heere?\nBot. You were best to call them generally, man by\nman according to the scrip\nQui. Here is the scrowle of euery mans name, which\nis thought fit through all Athens, to play in our Enterlude\nbefore the Duke and the Dutches, on his wedding\nday at night\nBot. First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats\non: then read the names of the Actors: and so grow on\nto a point\nQuin. Marry our play is the most lamentable comedy,\nand most cruell death of Pyramus and Thisbie\nBot. A very good peece of worke I assure you, and a\nmerry. Now good Peter Quince, call forth your Actors\nby the scrowle. Masters spread your selues\nQuince. Answere as I call you. Nick Bottome the\nWeauer\nBottome. Ready; name what part I am for, and\nproceed\nQuince. You Nicke Bottome are set downe for Pyramus\nBot. What is Pyramus, a louer, or a tyrant?\nQuin. A Louer that kills himselfe most gallantly for\nloue\nBot. That will aske some teares in the true performing\nof it: if I do it, let the audience looke to their eies:\nI will mooue stormes; I will condole in some measure.\nTo the rest yet, my chiefe humour is for a tyrant. I could\nplay Ercles rarely, or a part to teare a Cat in, to make all\nsplit the raging Rocks; and shiuering shocks shall break\nthe locks of prison gates, and Phibbus carre shall shine\nfrom farre, and make and marre the foolish Fates. This\nwas lofty. Now name the rest of the Players. This\nis Ercles vaine, a tyrants vaine: a louer is more condoling\nQuin. Francis Flute the Bellowes-mender\nFlu. Heere Peter Quince\nQuin. You must take Thisbie on you\nFlut. What is Thisbie, a wandring Knight?\nQuin. It is the Lady that Pyramus must loue\nFlut. Nay faith, let not mee play a woman, I haue a\nbeard comming\nQui. That's all one, you shall play it in a Maske, and\nyou may speake as small as you will\nBot. And I may hide my face, let me play Thisbie too:\nIle speake in a monstrous little voyce; Thisne, Thisne, ah\nPyramus my louer deare, thy Thisbie deare, and Lady\ndeare\nQuin. No no, you must play Pyramus, and Flute, you\nThisby\nBot. Well, proceed\nQu. Robin Starueling the Taylor\nStar. Heere Peter Quince\nQuince. Robin Starueling, you must play Thisbies\nmother?\nTom Snowt, the Tinker\nSnowt. Heere Peter Quince\nQuin. you, Pyramus father; my self, Thisbies father;\nSnugge the Ioyner, you the Lyons part: and I hope there\nis a play fitted\nSnug. Haue you the Lions part written? pray you if\nbe, giue it me, for I am slow of studie\nQuin. You may doe it extemporie, for it is nothing\nbut roaring\nBot. Let mee play the Lyon too, I will roare that I\nwill doe any mans heart good to heare me. I will roare,\nthat I will make the Duke say, Let him roare againe, let\nhim roare againe\nQuin. If you should do it too terribly, you would\nfright the Dutchesse and the Ladies, that they would\nshrike, and that were enough to hang us all\nAll. That would hang vs euery mothers sonne\nBottome. I graunt you friends, if that you should\nfright the Ladies out of their Wittes, they would\nhaue no more discretion but to hang vs: but I will aggrauate\nmy voyce so, that I will roare you as gently as\nany sucking Doue; I will roare and 'twere any Nightingale\nQuin. You can play no part but Piramus, for Piramus\nis a sweet-fac'd man, a proper man as one shall see in\na summers day; a most louely Gentleman-like man, therfore\nyou must needs play Piramus\nBot. Well, I will vndertake it. What beard were I\nbest to play it in?\nQuin. Why, what you will\nBot. I will discharge it, in either your straw-colour\nbeard, your orange tawnie beard, your purple in graine\nbeard, or your French-crowne colour'd beard, your perfect\nyellow\nQuin. Some of your French Crownes haue no haire\nat all, and then you will play bare-fac'd. But masters here\nare your parts, and I am to intreat you, request you, and\ndesire you, to con them by too morrow night: and meet\nme in the palace wood, a mile without the Towne, by\nMoone-light, there we will rehearse: for if we meete in\nthe Citie, we shalbe dog'd with company, and our deuises\nknowne. In the meane time, I wil draw a bil of properties,\nsuch as our play wants. I pray you faile me not\nBottom. We will meete, and there we may rehearse\nmore obscenely and couragiously. Take paines, be perfect,\nadieu\nQuin. At the Dukes oake we meete\nBot. Enough, hold or cut bow-strings.\nExeunt.\nActus Secundus.\nEnter a Fairie at one dore, and Robin goodfellow at another.\nRob. How now spirit, whether wander you?\nFai. Ouer hil, ouer dale, through bush, through briar,\nOuer parke, ouer pale, through flood, through fire,\nI do wander euerie where, swifter then y Moons sphere;\nAnd I serue the Fairy Queene, to dew her orbs vpon the green.\nThe Cowslips tall, her pensioners bee,\nIn their gold coats, spots you see,\nThose be Rubies, Fairie fauors,\nIn those freckles, liue their sauors,\nI must go seeke some dew drops heere,\nAnd hang a pearle in euery cowslips eare.\nFarewell thou Lob of spirits, Ile be gon,\nOur Queene and all her Elues come heere anon\nRob. The King doth keepe his Reuels here to night,\nTake heed the Queene come not within his sight,\nFor Oberon is passing fell and wrath,\nBecause that she, as her attendant, hath\nA louely boy stolne from an Indian King,\nShe neuer had so sweet a changeling,\nAnd iealous Oberon would haue the childe\nKnight of his traine, to trace the Forrests wilde.\nBut she (perforce) with-holds the loued boy,\nCrownes him with flowers, and makes him all her ioy.\nAnd now they neuer meete in groue, or greene,\nBy fountaine cleere, or spangled star-light sheene,\nBut they do square, that all their Elues for feare\nCreepe into Acorne cups and hide them there\nFai. Either I mistake your shape and making quite,\nOr else you are that shrew'd and knauish spirit\nCal'd Robin Good-fellow. Are you not hee,\nThat frights the maidens of the Villagree,\nSkim milke, and sometimes labour in the querne,\nAnd bootlesse make the breathlesse huswife cherne,\nAnd sometime make the drinke to beare no barme,\nMisleade night-wanderers, laughing at their harme,\nThose that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Pucke,\nYou do their worke, and they shall haue good lucke.\nAre not you he?\nRob. Thou speak'st aright;\nI am that merrie wanderer of the night:\nI iest to Oberon, and make him smile,\nWhen I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,\nNeighing in likenesse of a silly foale,\nAnd sometime lurke I in a Gossips bole,\nIn very likenesse of a roasted crab:\nAnd when she drinkes, against her lips I bob,\nAnd on her withered dewlop poure the Ale.\nThe wisest Aunt telling the saddest tale,\nSometime for three-foot stoole, mistaketh me,\nThen slip I from her bum, downe topples she,\nAnd tailour cries, and fals into a coffe.\nAnd then the whole quire hold their hips, and loffe,\nAnd waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and sweare,\nA merrier houre was neuer wasted there.\nBut roome Fairy, heere comes Oberon\nFair. And heere my Mistris:\nWould that he were gone.\nEnter the King of Fairies at one doore with his traine, and the\nQueene at\nanother with hers.\nOb. Ill met by Moone-light.\nProud Tytania\nQu. What, iealous Oberon? Fairy skip hence.\nI haue forsworne his bed and companie\nOb. Tarrie rash Wanton; am not I thy Lord?\nQu. Then I must be thy Lady: but I know\nWhen thou wast stolne away from Fairy Land,\nAnd in the shape of Corin, sate all day,\nPlaying on pipes of Corne, and versing loue\nTo amorous Phillida. Why art thou heere\nCome from the farthest steepe of India?\nBut that forsooth the bouncing Amazon\nYour buskin'd Mistresse, and your Warrior loue,\nTo Theseus must be Wedded; and you come,\nTo giue their bed ioy and prosperitie\nOb. How canst thou thus for shame Tytania.\nGlance at my credite, with Hippolita?\nKnowing I know thy loue to Theseus?\nDidst thou not leade him through the glimmering night\nFrom Peregenia, whom he rauished?\nAnd make him with faire Eagles breake his faith\nWith Ariadne, and Antiopa?\nQue. These are the forgeries of iealousie,\nAnd neuer since the middle Summers spring\nMet we on hil, in dale, forrest, or mead,\nBy paued fountaine, or by rushie brooke,\nOr in the beached margent of the sea,\nTo dance our ringlets to the whistling Winde,\nBut with thy braules thou hast disturb'd our sport.\nTherefore the Windes, piping to vs in vaine,\nAs in reuenge, haue suck'd vp from the sea\nContagious fogges: Which falling in the Land,\nHath euerie petty Riuer made so proud,\nThat they haue ouer-borne their Continents.\nThe Oxe hath therefore stretch'd his yoake in vaine,\nThe Ploughman lost his sweat, and the greene Corne\nHath rotted, ere his youth attain'd a beard:\nThe fold stands empty in the drowned field,\nAnd Crowes are fatted with the murrion flocke,\nThe nine mens Morris is fild vp with mud,\nAnd the queint Mazes in the wanton greene,\nFor lacke of tread are vndistinguishable.\nThe humane mortals want their winter heere,\nNo night is now with hymne or caroll blest;\nTherefore the Moone (the gouernesse of floods)\nPale in her anger, washes all the aire;\nThat Rheumaticke diseases doe abound.\nAnd through this distemperature, we see\nThe seasons alter; hoared headed Frosts\nFall in the fresh lap of the crimson Rose,\nAnd on old Hyems chinne and Icie crowne,\nAn odorous Chaplet of sweet Sommer buds\nIs as in mockry set. The Spring, the Sommer,\nThe childing Autumne, angry Winter change\nTheir wonted Liueries, and the mazed world,\nBy their increase, now knowes not which is which;\nAnd this same progeny of euills,\nComes from our debate, from our dissention,\nWe are their parents and originall\nOber. Do you amend it then, it lies in you,\nWhy should Titania crosse her Oberon?\nI do but beg a little changeling boy,\nTo be my Henchman\nQu. Set your heart at rest,\nThe Fairy land buyes not the childe of me,\nHis mother was a Votresse of my Order,\nAnd in the spiced Indian aire, by night\nFull often hath she gossipt by my side,\nAnd sat with me on Neptunes yellow sands,\nMarking th' embarked traders on the flood,\nWhen we haue laught to see the sailes conceiue,\nAnd grow big bellied with the wanton winde:\nWhich she with pretty and with swimming gate,\nFollowing (her wombe then rich with my yong squire)\nWould imitate, and saile vpon the Land,\nTo fetch me trifles, and returne againe,\nAs from a voyage, rich with merchandize.\nBut she being mortall, of that boy did die,\nAnd for her sake I doe reare vp her boy,\nAnd for her sake I will not part with him\nOb. How long within this wood intend you stay?\nQu. Perchance till after Theseus wedding day.\nIf you will patiently dance in our Round,\nAnd see our Moone-light reuels, goe with vs;\nIf not, shun me and I will spare your haunts\nOb. Giue me that boy, and I will goe with thee\nQu. Not for thy Fairy Kingdome. Fairies away:\nWe shall chide downe right, if I longer stay.\nExeunt\nOb. Wel, go thy way: thou shalt not from this groue,\nTill I torment thee for this iniury.\nMy gentle Pucke come hither; thou remembrest\nSince once I sat vpon a promontory,\nAnd heard a Meare-maide on a Dolphins backe,\nVttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,\nThat the rude sea grew ciuill at her song,\nAnd certaine starres shot madly from their Spheares,\nTo heare the Sea-maids musicke\nPuc. I remember\nOb. That very time I say (but thou couldst not)\nFlying betweene the cold Moone and the earth,\nCupid all arm'd; a certaine aime he tooke\nAt a faire Vestall, throned by the West,\nAnd loos'd his loue-shaft smartly from his bow,\nAs it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts,\nBut I might see young Cupids fiery shaft\nQuencht in the chaste beames of the watry Moone;\nAnd the imperiall Votresse passed on,\nIn maiden meditation, fancy free.\nYet markt I where the bolt of Cupid fell.\nIt fell vpon a little westerne flower;\nBefore, milke-white: now purple with loues wound,\nAnd maidens call it, Loue in idlenesse.\nFetch me that flower; the hearb I shew'd thee once,\nThe iuyce of it, on sleeping eye-lids laid,\nWill make or man or woman madly dote\nVpon the next liue creature that it sees.\nFetch me this hearbe, and be thou heere againe,\nEre the Leuiathan can swim a league\nPucke. Ile put a girdle about the earth, in forty minutes\nOber. Hauing once this iuyce,\nIle watch Titania, when she is asleepe,\nAnd drop the liquor of it in her eyes:\nThe next thing when she waking lookes vpon,\n(Be it on Lyon, Beare, or Wolfe, or Bull,\nOn medling Monkey, or on busie Ape)\nShee shall pursue it, with the soule of loue.\nAnd ere I take this charme off from her sight,\n(As I can take it with another hearbe)\nIle make her render vp her Page to me.\nBut who comes heere? I am inuisible,\nAnd I will ouer-heare their conference.\nEnter Demetrius, Helena following him.\nDeme. I loue thee not, therefore pursue me not,\nWhere is Lysander, and faire Hermia?\nThe one Ile stay, the other stayeth me.\nThou toldst me they were stolne into this wood;\nAnd heere am I, and wood within this wood,\nBecause I cannot meet my Hermia.\nHence, get thee gone, and follow me no more\nHel. You draw me, you hard-hearted Adamant,\nBut yet you draw not Iron, for my heart\nIs true as steele. Leaue you your power to draw,\nAnd I shall haue no power to follow you\nDeme. Do I entice you? do I speake you faire?\nOr rather doe I not in plainest truth,\nTell you I doe not, nor I cannot loue you?\nHel. And euen for that doe I loue thee the more;\nI am your spaniell, and Demetrius,\nThe more you beat me, I will fawne on you.\nVse me but as your spaniell; spurne me, strike me,\nNeglect me, lose me; onely giue me leaue\n(Vnworthy as I am) to follow you.\nWhat worser place can I beg in your loue,\n(And yet a place of high respect with me)\nThen to be vsed as you doe your dogge\nDem. Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit,\nFor I am sicke when I do looke on thee\nHel. And I am sicke when I looke not on you\nDem. You doe impeach your modesty too much,\nTo leaue the Citty, and commit your selfe\nInto the hands of one that loues you not,\nTo trust the opportunity of night.\nAnd the ill counsell of a desert place,\nWith the rich worth of your virginity\nHel. Your vertue is my priuiledge: for that\nIt is not night when I doe see your face.\nTherefore I thinke I am not in the night,\nNor doth this wood lacke worlds of company,\nFor you in my respect are all the world.\nThen how can it be said I am alone,\nWhen all the world is heere to looke on me?\nDem. Ile run from thee, and hide me in the brakes,\nAnd leaue thee to the mercy of wilde beasts\nHel. The wildest hath not such a heart as you;\nRunne when you will, the story shall be chang'd:\nApollo flies and Daphne holds the chase;\nThe Doue pursues the Griffin, the milde Hinde\nMakes speed to catch the Tyger. Bootlesse speede,\nWhen cowardise pursues, and valour flies\nDemet. I will not stay thy questions, let me go;\nOr if thou follow me, doe not beleeue,\nBut I shall doe thee mischiefe in the wood\nHel. I, in the Temple, in the Towne, and Field\nYou doe me mischiefe. Fye Demetrius,\nYour wrongs doe set a scandall on my sexe:\nWe cannot fight for loue, as men may doe;\nWe should be woo'd, and were not made to wooe.\nI follow thee, and make a heauen of hell,\nTo die vpon the hand I loue so well.\nEnter.\nOb. Fare thee well Nymph, ere he do leaue this groue,\nThou shalt flie him, and he shall seeke thy loue.\nHast thou the flower there? Welcome wanderer.\nEnter Pucke.\nPuck. I there it is\nOb. I pray thee giue it me.\nI know a banke where the wilde time blowes,\nWhere Oxslips and the nodding Violet growes,\nQuite ouer-cannoped with luscious woodbine,\nWith sweet muske roses, and with Eglantine;\nThere sleepes Tytania, sometime of the night,\nLul'd in these flowers, with dances and delight:\nAnd there the snake throwes her enammel'd skinne,\nWeed wide enough to rap a Fairy in.\nAnd with the iuyce of this Ile streake her eyes,\nAnd make her full of hatefull fantasies.\nTake thou some of it, and seek through this groue;\nA sweet Athenian Lady is in loue\nWith a disdainefull youth: annoint his eyes,\nBut doe it when the next thing he espies,\nMay be the Lady. Thou shalt know the man,\nBy the Athenian garments he hath on.\nEffect it with some care, that he may proue\nMore fond on her, then she vpon her loue;\nAnd looke thou meet me ere the first Cocke crow\nPu. Feare not my Lord, your seruant shall do so.\nEnter.\nEnter Queene of Fairies, with her traine.\nQueen. Come, now a Roundell, and a Fairy song;\nThen for the third part of a minute hence,\nSome to kill Cankers in the muske rose buds,\nSome warre with Reremise, for their leathern wings.\nTo make my small Elues coates, and some keepe backe\nThe clamorous Owle that nightly hoots and wonders\nAt our queint spirits: Sing me now asleepe,\nThen to your offices, and let me rest\nFairies Sing. You spotted Snakes with double tongue,\nThorny Hedgehogges be not seene,\nNewts and blinde wormes do no wrong,\nCome not neere our Fairy Queene.\nPhilomele with melodie,\nSing in your sweet Lullaby.\nLulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby,\nNeuer harme, nor spell, nor charme,\nCome our louely Lady nye,\nSo good night with Lullaby\n2.Fairy. Weauing Spiders come not heere,\nHence you long leg'd Spinners, hence:\nBeetles blacke approach not neere;\nWorme nor Snayle doe no offence.\nPhilomele with melody, &c\n1.Fairy. Hence away, now all is well;\nOne aloofe, stand Centinell.\nShee sleepes.\nEnter Oberon.\nOber. What thou seest when thou dost wake,\nDo it for thy true Loue take:\nLoue and languish for his sake.\nBe it Ounce, or Catte, or Beare,\nPard, or Boare with bristled haire,\nIn thy eye that shall appeare,\nWhen thou wak'st, it is thy deare,\nWake when some vile thing is neere.\nEnter Lisander and Hermia.\nLis. Faire loue, you faint with wandring in y woods,\nAnd to speake troth I haue forgot our way:\nWee'll rest vs Hermia, If you thinke it good,\nAnd tarry for the comfort of the day\nHer. Be it so Lysander; finde you out a bed,\nFor I vpon this banke will rest my head\nLys. One turfe shall serue as pillow for vs both,\nOne heart, one bed, two bosomes, and one troth\nHer. Nay good Lysander, for my sake my deere\nLie further off yet, doe not lie so neere\nLys. O take the sence sweet, of my innocence,\nLoue takes the meaning, in loues conference,\nI meane that my heart vnto yours is knit,\nSo that but one heart can you make of it.\nTwo bosomes interchanged with an oath,\nSo then two bosomes, and a single troth.\nThen by your side, no bed-roome me deny,\nFor lying so, Hermia, I doe not lye\nHer. Lysander riddles very prettily;\nNow much beshrew my manners and my pride,\nIf Hermia meant to say, Lysander lied.\nBut gentle friend, for loue and courtesie\nLie further off, in humane modesty,\nSuch separation, as may well be said,\nBecomes a vertuous batchelour, and a maide,\nSo farre be distant, and good night sweet friend;\nThy loue nere alter, till thy sweet life end\nLys. Amen, amen, to that faire prayer, say I,\nAnd then end life, when I end loyalty:\nHeere is my bed, sleepe giue thee all his rest\nHer. With halfe that wish, the wishers eyes be prest.\nEnter Pucke. They sleepe.\nPuck. Through the Forest haue I gone,\nBut Athenian finde I none,\nOne whose eyes I might approue\nThis flowers force in stirring loue.\nNigh and silence: who is heere?\nWeedes of Athens he doth weare:\nThis is he (my master said)\nDespised the Athenian maide:\nAnd heere the maiden sleeping sound,\nOn the danke and durty ground.\nPretty soule, she durst not lye\nNeere this lacke-loue, this kill-curtesie.\nChurle, vpon thy eyes I throw\nAll the power this charme doth owe:\nWhen thou wak'st, let loue forbid\nSleepe his seate on thy eye-lid.\nSo awake when I am gone:\nFor I must now to Oberon.\nEnter.\nEnter Demetrius and Helena running.\nHel. Stay, though thou kill me, sweete Demetrius\nDe. I charge thee hence, and do not haunt me thus\nHel. O wilt thou darkling leaue me? do not so\nDe. Stay on thy perill, I alone will goe.\nExit Demetrius.\nHel. O I am out of breath, in this fond chace,\nThe more my prayer, the lesser is my grace,\nHappy is Hermia, wheresoere she lies;\nFor she hath blessed and attractiue eyes.\nHow came her eyes so bright? Not with salt teares.\nIf so, my eyes are oftner washt then hers.\nNo, no, I am as vgly as a Beare;\nFor beasts that meete me, runne away for feare,\nTherefore no maruaile, though Demetrius\nDoe as a monster, flie my presence thus.\nWhat wicked and dissembling glasse of mine,\nMade me compare with Hermias sphery eyne?\nBut who is here? Lysander on the ground;\nDeade or asleepe? I see no bloud, no wound,\nLysander, if you liue, good sir awake\nLys. And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake.\nTransparent Helena, nature her shewes art,\nThat through thy bosome makes me see thy heart.\nWhere is Demetrius? oh how fit a word\nIs that vile name, to perish on my sword!\nHel. Do not say so Lysander, say not so:\nWhat though he loue your Hermia? Lord, what though?\nYet Hermia still loues you; then be content\nLys. Content with Hermia? no, I do repent\nThe tedious minutes I with her haue spent.\nNot Hermia, but Helena now I loue;\nWho will not change a Rauen for a Doue?\nThe will of man is by his reason sway'd:\nAnd reason saies you are the worthier Maide.\nThings growing are not ripe vntill their season;\nSo I being yong, till now ripe not to reason,\nAnd touching now the point of humane skill,\nReason becomes the Marshall to my will.\nAnd leades me to your eyes, where I orelooke\nLoues stories, written in Loues richest booke\nHel. Wherefore was I to this keene mockery borne?\nWhen at your hands did I deserue this scorne?\nIst not enough, ist not enough, yong man,\nThat I did neuer, no nor neuer can,\nDeserue a sweete looke from Demetrius eye,\nBut you must flout my insufficiency?\nGood troth you do me wrong (good-sooth you do)\nIn such disdainfull manner, me to wooe.\nBut fare you well; perforce I must confesse,\nI thought you Lord of more true gentlenesse.\nOh, that a Lady of one man refus'd,\nShould of another therefore be abus'd.\nEnter\nLys. She sees not Hermia: Hermia sleepe thou there,\nAnd neuer maist thou come Lysander neere;\nFor as a surfeit of the sweetest things\nThe deepest loathing to the stomacke brings:\nOr as the heresies that men do leaue,\nAre hated most of those that did deceiue:\nSo thou, my surfeit, and my heresie,\nOf all be hated; but the most of me;\nAnd all my powers addresse your loue and might,\nTo honour Helen, and to be her Knight.\nEnter.\nHer. Helpe me Lysander, helpe me; do thy best\nTo plucke this crawling serpent from my brest.\nAye me, for pitty; what a dreame was here?\nLysander looke, how I do quake with feare:\nMe-thought a serpent eate my heart away,\nAnd yet sat smiling at his cruell prey.\nLysander, What remoou'd? Lysander, Lord,\nWhat, out of hearing, gone? No sound, no word?\nAlacke where are you? speake and if you heare:\nSpeake of all loues; I sound almost with feare.\nNo, then I well perceiue you are not nye,\nEither death or you Ile finde immediately.\nEnter.\nActus Tertius.\nEnter the Clownes.\nBot. Are we all met?\nQuin. Pat, pat, and here's a maruailous conuenient\nplace for our rehearsall. This greene plot shall be our\nstage, this hauthorne brake our tyring house, and we will\ndo it in action, as we will do it before the Duke\nBot. Peter Quince?\nPeter. What saist thou, bully Bottome?\nBot. There are things in this Comedy of Piramus and\nThisby, that will neuer please. First, Piramus must draw a\nsword to kill himselfe; which the Ladies cannot abide.\nHow answere you that?\nSnout. Berlaken, a parlous feare\nStar. I beleeue we must leaue the killing out, when\nall is done\nBot. Not a whit, I haue a deuice to make all well.\nWrite me a Prologue, and let the Prologue seeme to say,\nwe will do no harme with our swords, and that Pyramus\nis not kill'd indeede: and for the more better assurance,\ntell them, that I Piramus am not Piramus, but Bottome the\nWeauer; this will put them out of feare\nQuin. Well, we will haue such a Prologue, and it shall\nbe written in eight and sixe\nBot. No, make it two more, let it be written in eight\nand eight\nSnout. Will not the Ladies be afear'd of the Lyon?\nStar. I feare it, I promise you\nBot. Masters, you ought to consider with your selues, to\nbring in (God shield vs) a Lyon among Ladies, is a most\ndreadfull thing. For there is not a more fearefull wilde\nfoule then your Lyon liuing: and wee ought to looke\nto it\nSnout. Therefore another Prologue must tell he is not\na Lyon\nBot. Nay, you must name his name, and halfe his face\nmust be seene through the Lyons necke, and he himselfe\nmust speake through, saying thus, or to the same defect;\nLadies, or faire Ladies, I would wish you, or I would\nrequest you, or I would entreat you, not to feare, not to\ntremble: my life for yours. If you thinke I come hither\nas a Lyon, it were pitty of my life. No, I am no such\nthing, I am a man as other men are; and there indeed let\nhim name his name, and tell him plainly hee is Snug the\nioyner\nQuin. Well, it shall be so; but there is two hard\nthings, that is, to bring the Moone-light into a chamber:\nfor you know Piramus and Thisby meete by Moonelight\nSn. Doth the Moone shine that night wee play our\nplay?\nBot. A Calender, a Calender, looke in the Almanack,\nfinde out Moone-shine, finde out Moone-shine.\nEnter Pucke.\nQuin. Yes, it doth shine that night\nBot. Why then may you leaue a casement of the great\nchamber window (where we play) open, and the Moone\nmay shine in at the casement\nQuin. I, or else one must come in with a bush of thorns\nand a lanthorne, and say he comes to disfigure, or to present\nthe person of Moone-shine. Then there is another\nthing, we must haue a wall in the great Chamber; for Piramus\nand Thisby (saies the story) did talke through the\nchinke of a wall\nSn. You can neuer bring in a wall. What say you\nBottome?\nBot. Some man or other must present wall, and let\nhim haue some Plaster, or some Lome, or some rough\ncast about him, to signifie wall; or let him hold his fingers\nthus; and through that cranny shall Piramus and\nThisby whisper\nQuin. If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit\ndowne euery mothers sonne, and rehearse your parts.\nPiramus, you begin; when you haue spoken your speech,\nenter into that Brake, and so euery one according to his\ncue.\nEnter Robin.\nRob. What hempen home-spuns haue we swaggering\nhere,\nSo neere the Cradle of the Faierie Queene?\nWhat, a Play toward? Ile be an auditor,\nAn Actor too perhaps, if I see cause\nQuin. Speake Piramus: Thisby stand forth\nPir. Thisby, the flowers of odious sauors sweete\nQuin. Odours, odours\nPir. Odours sauors sweete,\nSo hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby deare.\nBut harke, a voyce: stay thou but here a while,\nAnd by and by I will to thee appeare.\nExit. Pir.\nPuck. A stranger Piramus, then ere plaid here\nThis. Must I speake now?\nPet. I marry must you. For you must vnderstand he\ngoes but to see a noyse that he heard, and is to come againe\nThys. Most radiant Piramus, most Lilly white of hue,\nOf colour like the red rose on triumphant bryer,\nMost brisky Iuuenall, and eke most louely Iew,\nAs true as truest horse, that yet would neuer tyre,\nIle meete thee Piramus, at Ninnies toombe\nPet. Ninus toombe man: why, you must not speake\nthat yet; that you answere to Piramus: you speake all\nyour part at once, cues and all. Piramus enter, your cue is\npast; it is neuer tyre\nThys. O, as true as truest horse, that yet would neuer\ntyre:\nPir. If I were faire, Thisby I were onely thine\nPet. O monstrous. O strange. We are hanted; pray\nmasters, flye masters, helpe.\nThe Clownes all Exit.\nPuk. Ile follow you, Ile leade you about a Round,\nThrough bogge, through bush, through brake, through bryer,\nSometime a horse Ile be, sometime a hound:\nA hogge, a headlesse beare, sometime a fire,\nAnd neigh, and barke, and grunt, and rore, and burne,\nLike horse, hound, hog, beare, fire, at euery turne.\nEnter.\nEnter Piramus with the Asse head.\nBot. Why do they run away? This is a knauery of\nthem to make me afeard.\nEnter Snowt\nSn. O Bottom, thou art chang'd; What doe I see on\nthee?\nBot. What do you see? You see an Asse-head of your\nowne, do you?\nEnter Peter Quince.\nPet. Blesse thee Bottome, blesse thee; thou art translated.\nEnter.\nBot. I see their knauery; this is to make an asse of me,\nto fright me if they could; but I will not stirre from\nthis place, do what they can. I will walke vp and downe\nhere, and I will sing that they shall heare I am not afraid.\nThe Woosell cocke, so blacke of hew,\nWith Orenge-tawny bill.\nThe Throstle, with his note so true,\nThe Wren and little quill\nTyta. What Angell wakes me from my flowry bed?\nBot. The Finch, the Sparrow, and the Larke,\nThe plainsong Cuckow gray;\nWhose note full many a man doth marke,\nAnd dares not answere, nay.\nFor indeede, who would set his wit to so foolish a bird?\nWho would giue a bird the lye, though he cry Cuckow,\nneuer so?\nTyta. I pray thee gentle mortall, sing againe,\nMine eare is much enamored of thy note;\nOn the first view to say, to sweare I loue thee.\nSo is mine eye enthralled to thy shape.\nAnd thy faire vertues force (perforce) doth moue me\nBot. Me-thinkes mistresse, you should haue little\nreason for that: and yet to say the truth, reason and\nloue keepe little company together, nowadayes.\nThe more the pittie, that some honest neighbours will\nnot make them friends. Nay, I can gleeke vpon occasion\nTyta. Thou art as wise, as thou art beautifull\nBot. Not so neither: but if I had wit enough to get\nout of this wood, I haue enough to serue mine owne\nturne\nTyta. Out of this wood, do not desire to goe,\nThou shalt remaine here, whether thou wilt or no.\nI am a spirit of no common rate:\nThe Summer still doth tend vpon my state,\nAnd I doe loue thee; therefore goe with me,\nIle giue thee Fairies to attend on thee;\nAnd they shall fetch thee Iewels from the deepe,\nAnd sing, while thou on pressed flowers dost sleepe:\nAnd I will purge thy mortall grossenesse so,\nThat thou shalt like an airie spirit go.\nEnter Pease-blossome, Cobweb, Moth, Mustardseede, and foure\nFairies.\nFai. Ready; and I, and I, and I, Where shall we go?\nTita. Be kinde and curteous to this Gentleman,\nHop in his walkes, and gambole in his eies,\nFeede him with Apricocks, and Dewberries,\nWith purple Grapes, greene Figs, and Mulberries,\nThe honie-bags steale from the humble Bees,\nAnd for night-tapers crop their waxen thighes,\nAnd light them at the fierie-Glow-wormes eyes,\nTo haue my loue to bed, and to arise:\nAnd plucke the wings from painted Butterflies,\nTo fan the Moone-beames from his sleeping eies.\nNod to him Elues, and doe him curtesies\n1.Fai. Haile mortall, haile\n2.Fai. Haile\n3.Fai. Haile\nBot. I cry your worships mercy hartily; I beseech\nyour worships name\nCob. Cobweb\nBot. I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good\nMaster Cobweb: if I cut my finger, I shall make bold\nwith you.\nYour name honest Gentleman?\nPease. Pease Blossome\nBot. I pray you commend me to mistresse Squash,\nyour mother, and to master Peascod your father. Good\nmaster Pease-blossome, I shal desire of you more acquaintance\nto. Your name I beseech you sir?\nMus. Mustard-seede\nPeas. Pease-blossome\nBot. Good master Mustard seede, I know your patience\nwell: that same cowardly gyant-like Oxe beefe\nhath deuoured many a gentleman of your house. I promise\nyou, your kindred hath made my eyes water ere\nnow. I desire you more acquaintance, good Master\nMustard-seede\nTita. Come waite vpon him, lead him to my bower.\nThe Moone me-thinks, lookes with a watrie eie,\nAnd when she weepes, weepe euerie little flower,\nLamenting some enforced chastitie.\nTye vp my louers tongue, bring him silently.\nEnter.\nEnter King of Pharies, solus.\nOb. I wonder if Titania be awak't;\nThen what it was that next came in her eye,\nWhich she must dote on, in extremitie.\nEnter Pucke.\nHere comes my messenger: how now mad spirit,\nWhat night-rule now about this haunted groue?\nPuck. My Mistris with a monster is in loue,\nNeere to her close and consecrated bower,\nWhile she was in her dull and sleeping hower,\nA crew of patches, rude Mechanicals,\nThat worke for bread vpon Athenian stals,\nWere met together to rehearse a Play,\nIntended for great Theseus nuptiall day:\nThe shallowest thick-skin of that barren sort,\nWho Piramus presented, in their sport,\nForsooke his Scene, and entred in a brake,\nWhen I did him at this aduantage take,\nAn Asses nole I fixed on his head.\nAnon his Thisbie must be answered,\nAnd forth my Mimmick comes: when they him spie,\nAs Wilde-geese, that the creeping Fowler eye,\nOr russed-pated choughes, many in sort\n(Rising and cawing at the guns report)\nSeuer themselues, and madly sweepe the skye:\nSo at his sight, away his fellowes flye,\nAnd at our stampe, here ore and ore one fals;\nHe murther cries, and helpe from Athens cals.\nTheir sense thus weake, lost with their feares thus strong,\nMade senslesse things begin to do them wrong.\nFor briars and thornes at their apparell snatch,\nSome sleeues, some hats, from yeelders all things catch,\nI led them on in this distracted feare,\nAnd left sweete Piramus translated there:\nWhen in that moment (so it came to passe)\nTytania waked, and straightway lou'd an Asse\nOb. This fals out better then I could deuise:\nBut hast thou yet lacht the Athenians eyes,\nWith the loue iuyce, as I bid thee doe?\nRob. I tooke him sleeping (that is finisht to)\nAnd the Athenian woman by his side,\nThat when he wak't, of force she must be eyde.\nEnter Demetrius and Hermia.\nOb. Stand close, this is the same Athenian\nRob. This is the woman, but not this the man\nDem. O why rebuke you him that loues you so?\nLay breath so bitter on your bitter foe\nHer. Now I but chide, but I should vse thee worse.\nFor thou (I feare) hast giuen me cause to curse,\nIf thou hast slaine Lysander in his sleepe,\nBeing oreshooes in bloud, plunge in the deepe, and kill\nme too:\nThe Sunne was not so true vnto the day,\nAs he to me. Would he haue stollen away,\nFrom sleeping Hermia? Ile beleeue as soone\nThis whole earth may be bord, and that the Moone\nMay through the Center creepe, and so displease\nHer brothers noonetide, with th'Antipodes.\nIt cannot be but thou hast murdred him,\nSo should a murtherer looke, so dead, so grim\nDem. So should the murderer looke, and so should I,\nPierst through the heart with your stearne cruelty:\nYet you the murderer lookes as bright as cleare,\nAs yonder Venus in her glimmering spheare\nHer. What's this to my Lysander? where is he?\nAh good Demetrius, wilt thou giue him me?\nDem. I'de rather giue his carkasse to my hounds\nHer. Out dog, out cur, thou driu'st me past the bounds\nOf maidens patience. Hast thou slaine him then?\nHenceforth be neuer numbred among men.\nOh, once tell true, euen for my sake,\nDurst thou a lookt vpon him, being awake?\nAnd hast thou kill'd him sleeping? O braue tutch:\nCould not a worme, an Adder do so much?\nAn Adder did it: for with doubler tongue\nThen thine (thou serpent) neuer Adder stung\nDem. You spend your passion on a mispris'd mood,\nI am not guiltie of Lysanders blood:\nNor is he dead for ought that I can tell\nHer. I pray thee tell me then that he is well\nDem. And if I could, what should I get therefore?\nHer. A priuiledge, neuer to see me more;\nAnd from thy hated presence part I: see me no more\nWhether he be dead or no.\nEnter.\nDem. There is no following her in this fierce vaine,\nHere therefore for a while I will remaine.\nSo sorrowes heauinesse doth heauier grow:\nFor debt that bankrout slip doth sorrow owe,\nWhich now in some slight measure it will pay,\nIf for his tender here I make some stay.\nLie downe.\nOb. What hast thou done? Thou hast mistaken quite\nAnd laid the loue iuyce on some true loues sight:\nOf thy misprision, must perforce ensue\nSome true loue turn'd, and not a false turn'd true\nRob. Then fate ore-rules, that one man holding troth,\nA million faile, confounding oath on oath\nOb. About the wood, goe swifter then the winde,\nAnd Helena of Athens looke thou finde.\nAll fancy sicke she is, and pale of cheere,\nWith sighes of loue, that costs the fresh bloud deare.\nBy some illusion see thou bring her heere,\nIle charme his eyes against she doth appeare\nRobin. I go, I go, looke how I goe,\nSwifter then arrow from the Tartars bowe.\nEnter.\nOb. Flower of this purple die,\nHit with Cupids archery,\nSinke in apple of his eye,\nWhen his loue he doth espie,\nLet her shine as gloriously\nAs the Venus of the sky.\nWhen thou wak'st if she be by,\nBeg of her for remedy.\nEnter Pucke.\nPuck. Captaine of our Fairy band,\nHelena is heere at hand,\nAnd the youth, mistooke by me,\nPleading for a Louers fee.\nShall we their fond Pageant see?\nLord, what fooles these mortals be!\nOb. Stand aside: the noyse they make,\nWill cause Demetrius to awake\nPuck. Then will two at once wooe one,\nThat must needs be sport alone:\nAnd those things doe best please me,\nThat befall preposterously.\nEnter Lysander and Helena.\nLys. Why should you think y I should wooe in scorn?\nScorne and derision neuer comes in teares:\nLooke when I vow I weepe; and vowes so borne,\nIn their natiuity all truth appeares.\nHow can these things in me, seeme scorne to you?\nBearing the badge of faith to proue them true\nHel. You doe aduance your cunning more & more,\nWhen truth kils truth, O diuelish holy fray!\nThese vowes are Hermias. Will you giue her ore?\nWeigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh.\nYour vowes to her, and me, (put in two scales)\nWill euen weigh, and both as light as tales\nLys. I had no iudgement, when to her I swore\nHel. Nor none in my minde, now you giue her ore\nLys. Demetrius loues her, and he loues not you.\nAwa.\nDem. O Helen, goddesse, nimph, perfect, diuine,\nTo what, my loue, shall I compare thine eyne!\nChristall is muddy, O how ripe in show,\nThy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!\nThat pure congealed white, high Taurus snow,\nFan'd with the Easterne winde, turnes to a crow,\nWhen thou holdst vp thy hand. O let me kisse\nThis Princesse of pure white, this seale of blisse\nHell. O spight! O hell! I see you are all bent\nTo set against me, for your merriment:\nIf you were ciuill, and knew curtesie,\nYou would not doe me thus much iniury.\nCan you not hate me, as I know you doe,\nBut you must ioyne in soules to mocke me to?\nIf you are men, as men you are in show,\nYou would not vse a gentle Lady so;\nTo vow, and sweare, and superpraise my parts,\nWhen I am sure you hate me with your hearts.\nYou both are Riuals, and loue Hermia;\nAnd now both Riuals to mocke Helena.\nA trim exploit, a manly enterprize,\nTo coniure teares vp in a poore maids eyes,\nWith your derision; none of noble sort,\nWould so offend a Virgin, and extort\nA poore soules patience, all to make you sport,\nLysa. You are vnkind Demetrius; be not so,\nFor you loue Hermia; this you know I know;\nAnd here with all good will, with all my heart,\nIn Hermias loue I yeeld you vp my part;\nAnd yours of Helena, To me bequeath,\nWhom I do loue, and will do to my death\nHel. Neuer did mockers wast more idle breth\nDem. Lysander, keep thy Hermia, I will none:\nIf ere I lou'd her, all that loue is gone.\nMy heart to her, but as guest-wise soiourn'd,\nAnd now to Helen it is home return'd,\nThere to remaine\nLys. It is not so\nDe. Disparage not the faith thou dost not know,\nLest to thy perill thou abide it deare.\nLooke where thy Loue comes, yonder is thy deare.\nEnter Hermia.\nHer. Dark night, that from the eye his function takes,\nThe eare more quicke of apprehension makes,\nWherein it doth impaire the seeing sense,\nIt paies the hearing double recompence.\nThou art not by mine eye, Lysander found,\nMine eare (I thanke it) brought me to that sound.\nBut why vnkindly didst thou leaue me so?\nLysan. Why should hee stay whom Loue doth presse to go?\nHer. What loue could presse Lysander from my side?\nLys. Lysanders loue (that would not let him bide)\nFaire Helena; who more engilds the night,\nThen all yon fierie oes, and eies of light.\nWhy seek'st thou me? Could not this make thee know,\nThe hate I bare thee, made me leaue thee so?\nHer. You speake not as you thinke; it cannot be\nHel. Loe, she is one of this confederacy,\nNow I perceiue they haue conioyn'd all three,\nTo fashion this false sport in spight of me.\nIniurous Hermia, most vngratefull maid,\nHaue you conspir'd, haue you with these contriu'd\nTo baite me, with this foule derision?\nIs all the counsell that we two haue shar'd,\nThe sisters vowes, the houres that we haue spent,\nWhen wee haue chid the hasty footed time,\nFor parting vs; O, is all forgot?\nAll schooledaies friendship, child-hood innocence?\nWe Hermia, like two Artificiall gods,\nHaue with our needles, created both one flower,\nBoth on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,\nBoth warbling of one song, both in one key:\nAs if our hands, our sides, voices, and mindes\nHad beene incorporate. So we grew together,\nLike to a double cherry, seeming parted,\nBut yet a vnion in partition,\nTwo louely berries molded on one stem,\nSo with two seeming bodies, but one heart,\nTwo of the first life coats in Heraldry,\nDue but to one and crowned with one crest.\nAnd will you rent our ancient loue asunder,\nTo ioyne with men in scorning your poore friend?\nIt is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly.\nOur sexe as well as I, may chide you for it,\nThough I alone doe feele the iniurie\nHer. I am amazed at your passionate words,\nI scorne you not; It seemes that you scorne me\nHel. Haue you not set Lysander, as in scorne\nTo follow me, and praise my eies and face?\nAnd made your other loue, Demetrius\n(Who euen but now did spurne me with his foote)\nTo call me goddesse, nimph, diuine, and rare,\nPrecious, celestiall? Wherefore speakes he this\nTo her he hates? and wherefore doth Lysander\nDenie your loue (so rich within his soule)\nAnd tender me (forsooth) affection,\nBut by your setting on, by your consent?\nWhat though I be not so in grace as you,\nSo hung vpon with loue, so fortunate?\n(But miserable most, to loue vnlou'd)\nThis you should pittie, rather then despise\nHer. I vnderstand not what you meane by this\nHel. I, doe, perseuer, counterfeit sad lookes,\nMake mouthes vpon me when I turne my backe,\nWinke each at other, hold the sweete iest vp:\nThis sport well carried, shall be chronicled.\nIf you haue any pittie, grace, or manners,\nYou would not make me such an argument:\nBut fare ye well, 'tis partly mine owne fault,\nWhich death or absence soone shall remedie\nLys. Stay gentle Helena, heare my excuse,\nMy loue, my life, my soule, faire Helena\nHel. O excellent!\nHer. Sweete, do not scorne her so\nDem. If she cannot entreate, I can compell\nLys. Thou canst compell, no more then she entreate.\nThy threats haue no more strength then her weak praise.\nHelen, I loue thee, by my life I doe;\nI sweare by that which I will lose for thee,\nTo proue him false, that saies I loue thee not\nDem. I say, I loue thee more then he can do\nLys. If thou say so, withdraw and proue it too\nDem. Quick, come\nHer. Lysander, whereto tends all this?\nLys. Away, you Ethiope\nDem. No, no, Sir, seeme to breake loose;\nTake on as you would follow,\nBut yet come not: you are a tame man, go\nLys. Hang off thou cat, thou bur; vile thing let loose,\nOr I will shake thee from me like a serpent\nHer. Why are you growne so rude?\nWhat change is this sweete Loue?\nLys. Thy loue? out tawny Tartar, out;\nOut loathed medicine; O hated poison hence\nHer. Do you not iest?\nHel. Yes sooth, and so do you\nLys. Demetrius: I will keepe my word with thee\nDem. I would I had your bond: for I perceiue\nA weake bond holds you; Ile not trust your word\nLys. What, should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead?\nAlthough I hate her, Ile not harme her so\nHer. What, can you do me greater harme then hate?\nHate me, wherefore? O me, what newes my Loue?\nAm not I Hermia? Are not you Lysander?\nI am as faire now, as I was ere while.\nSince night you lou'd me: yet since night you left me.\nWhy then you left me (O the gods forbid)\nIn earnest, shall I say?\nLys. I, by my life;\nAnd neuer did desire to see thee more.\nTherefore be out of hope, of question, of doubt;\nBe certaine, nothing truer: 'tis no iest,\nThat I do hate thee, and loue Helena\nHer. O me, you iugler, you canker blossome,\nYou theefe of loue; What, haue you come by night,\nAnd stolne my loues heart from him?\nHel. Fine yfaith:\nHaue you no modesty, no maiden shame,\nNo touch of bashfulnesse? What, will you teare\nImpatient answers from my gentle tongue?\nFie, fie, you counterfeit, you puppet, you\nHer. Puppet? why so? I, that way goes the game.\nNow I perceiue that she hath made compare\nBetweene our statures, she hath vrg'd her height,\nAnd with her personage, her tall personage,\nHer height (forsooth) she hath preuail'd with him.\nAnd are you growne so high in his esteeme,\nBecause I am so dwarfish, and so low?\nHow low am I, thou painted May-pole? Speake,\nHow low am I? I am not yet so low,\nBut that my nailes can reach vnto thine eyes\nHel. I pray you though you mocke me, gentlemen,\nLet her not hurt me; I was neuer curst:\nI haue no gift at all in shrewishnesse;\nI am a right maide for my cowardize;\nLet her not strike me: you perhaps may thinke,\nBecause she is something lower then my selfe,\nThat I can match her\nHer. Lower? harke againe\nHel. Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me,\nI euermore did loue you Hermia,\nDid euer keepe your counsels, neuer wronged you,\nSaue that in loue vnto Demetrius,\nI told him of your stealth vnto this wood.\nHe followed you, for loue I followed him,\nBut he hath chid me hence, and threatned me\nTo strike me, spurne me, nay to kill me too;\nAnd now, so you will let me quiet go,\nTo Athens will I beare my folly backe,\nAnd follow you no further. Let me go.\nYou see how simple, and how fond I am\nHer. Why get you gone: who ist that hinders you?\nHel. A foolish heart, that I leaue here behinde\nHer. What, with Lysander?\nHer. With Demetrius\nLys. Be not afraid, she shall not harme thee Helena\nDem. No sir, she shall not, though you take her part\nHel. O when she's angry, she is keene and shrewd,\nShe was a vixen when she went to schoole,\nAnd though she be but little, she is fierce\nHer. Little againe? Nothing but low and little?\nWhy will you suffer her to flout me thus?\nLet me come to her\nLys. Get you gone you dwarfe,\nYou minimus, of hindring knot-grasse made,\nYou bead, you acorne\nDem. You are too officious,\nIn her behalfe that scornes your seruices.\nLet her alone, speake not of Helena,\nTake not her part. For if thou dost intend\nNeuer so little shew of loue to her,\nThou shalt abide it\nLys. Now she holds me not,\nNow follow if thou dar'st, to try whose right,\nOf thine or mine is most in Helena\nDem. Follow? Nay, Ile goe with thee cheeke by\niowle.\nExit Lysander and Demetrius.\nHer. You Mistris, all this coyle is long of you.\nNay, goe not backe\nHel. I will not trust you I,\nNor longer stay in your curst companie.\nYour hands then mine, are quicker for a fray,\nMy legs are longer though to runne away.\nEnter Oberon and Pucke.\nOb. This is thy negligence, still thou mistak'st,\nOr else committ'st thy knaueries willingly\nPuck. Beleeue me, King of shadowes, I mistooke,\nDid not you tell me, I should know the man,\nBy the Athenian garments he hath on?\nAnd so farre blamelesse proues my enterprize,\nThat I haue nointed an Athenians eies,\nAnd so farre am I glad, it so did sort,\nAs this their iangling I esteeme a sport\nOb. Thou seest these Louers seeke a place to fight,\nHie therefore Robin, ouercast the night,\nThe starrie Welkin couer thou anon,\nWith drooping fogge as blacke as Acheron,\nAnd lead these testie Riuals so astray,\nAs one come not within anothers way.\nLike to Lysander, sometime frame thy tongue,\nThen stirre Demetrius vp with bitter wrong;\nAnd sometime raile thou like Demetrius;\nAnd from each other looke thou leade them thus,\nTill ore their browes, death-counterfeiting, sleepe\nWith leaden legs, and Battie-wings doth creepe:\nThen crush this hearbe into Lysanders eie,\nWhose liquor hath this vertuous propertie,\nTo take from thence all error, with his might,\nand make his eie-bals role with wonted sight.\nWhen they next wake, all this derision\nShall seeme a dreame, and fruitless vision,\nAnd backe to Athens shall the Louers wend\nWith league, whose date till death shall neuer end.\nWhiles I in this affaire do thee imploy,\nIle to my Queene, and beg her Indian Boy;\nAnd then I will her charmed eie release\nFrom monsters view, and all things shall be peace\nPuck. My Fairie Lord, this must be done with haste,\nFor night-swift Dragons cut the Clouds full fast,\nAnd yonder shines Auroras harbinger;\nAt whose approach Ghosts wandring here and there,\nTroope home to Church-yards; damned spirits all,\nThat in crosse-waies and flouds haue buriall,\nAlreadie to their wormie beds are gone;\nFor feare least day should looke their shames vpon,\nThey wilfully themselues exile from light,\nAnd must for aye consort with blacke browd night\nOb. But we are spirits of another sort:\nI, with the mornings loue haue oft made sport,\nAnd like a Forrester, the groues may tread,\nEuen till the Easterne gate all fierie red,\nOpening on Neptune, With faire blessed beames,\nTurnes into yellow gold, his salt greene streames.\nBut not withstanding haste, make no delay:\nWe may effect this businesse, yet ere day\nPuck. Vp and downe, vp and downe, I will leade\nthem vp and downe: I am fear'd in field and towne.\nGoblin, lead them vp and downe: here comes one.\nEnter Lysander.\nLys. Where art thou, proud Demetrius?\nSpeake thou now\nRob. Here villaine, drawne & readie. Where art thou?\nLys. I will be with thee straight\nRob. Follow me then to plainer ground.\nEnter Demetrius.\nDem. Lysander, speake againe;\nThou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled?\nSpeake in some bush: Where dost thou hide thy head?\nRob. Thou coward, art thou bragging to the stars,\nTelling the bushes that thou look'st for wars,\nAnd wilt not come? Come recreant, come thou childe,\nIle whip thee with a rod. He is defil'd\nThat drawes a sword on thee\nDem. Yea, art thou there?\nRo. Follow my voice, we'l try no manhood here.\nEnter.\nLys. He goes before me, and still dares me on,\nWhen I come where he cals, then he's gone.\nThe Villaine is much lighter heel'd then I:\nI followed fast, but faster he did flye;\nshifting places.\nThat fallen am I in darke vneuen way,\nAnd here wil rest me. Come thou gentle day:\nlye down.\nFor if but once thou shew me thy gray light,\nIle finde Demetrius, and reuenge this spight.\nEnter Robin and Demetrius.\nRob. Ho, ho, ho; coward, why com'st thou not?\nDem. Abide me, if thou dar'st. For well I wot,\nThou runst before me, shifting euery place,\nAnd dar'st not stand, nor looke me in the face.\nWhere art thou?\nRob. Come hither, I am here\nDem. Nay then thou mock'st me; thou shalt buy this\ndeere,\nIf euer I thy face by day-light see.\nNow goe thy way: faintnesse constraineth me,\nTo measure out my length on this cold bed,\nBy daies approach looke to be visited.\nEnter Helena.\nHel. O weary night, O long and tedious night,\nAbate thy houres, shine comforts from the East,\nThat I may backe to Athens by day-light,\nFrom these that my poore companie detest;\nAnd sleepe that sometime shuts vp sorrowes eie,\nSteale me a while from mine owne companie.\nSleepe.\nRob. Yet but three? Come one more,\nTwo of both kindes makes vp foure.\nHere she comes, curst and sad,\nCupid is a knauish lad,\nEnter Hermia.\nThus to make poore females mad\nHer. Neuer so wearie, neuer so in woe,\nBedabbled with the dew, and torne with briars,\nI can no further crawle, no further goe;\nMy legs can keepe no pace with my desires.\nHere will I rest me till the breake of day,\nHeauens shield Lysander, if they meane a fray\nRob. On the ground sleepe sound,\nIle apply your eie gentle louer, remedy.\nWhen thou wak'st, thou tak'st\nTrue delight in the sight of thy former Ladies eye,\nAnd the Country Prouerb knowne,\nThat euery man should take his owne,\nIn your waking shall be showne.\nIacke shall haue Iill, nought shall goe ill.\nThe man shall haue his Mare againe, and all shall bee\nwell.\nThey sleepe all the Act.\nActus Quartus.\nEnter Queene of Fairies, and Clowne, and Fairies, and the King\nbehinde\nthem.\nTita. Come, sit thee downe vpon this flowry bed,\nWhile I thy amiable cheekes doe coy,\nAnd sticke muske roses in thy sleeke smoothe head,\nAnd kisse thy faire large eares, my gentle ioy\nClow. Where's Peaseblossome?\nPeas. Ready\nClow. Scratch my head, Pease-blossome. Wher's Mounsieuer\nCobweb\nCob. Ready\nClowne. Mounsieur Cobweb, good Mounsier get your\nweapons in your hand, & kill me a red hipt humble-Bee,\non the top of a thistle; and good Mounsieur bring mee\nthe hony bag. Doe not fret your selfe too much in the\naction, Mounsieur; and good mounsieur haue a care the\nhony bag breake not, I would be loth to haue you ouerflowne\nwith a hony-bag signiour. Where's Mounsieur\nMustardseed?\nMus. Ready\nClo. Giue me your neafe, Mounsieur Mustardseed.\nPray you leaue your courtesie good Mounsieur\nMus. What's your will?\nClo. Nothing good Mounsieur, but to help Caualery\nCobweb to scratch. I must to the Barbers Mounsieur, for\nme-thinkes I am maruellous hairy about the face. And I\nam such a tender asse, if my haire do but tickle me, I must\nscratch\nTita. What, wilt thou heare some musicke, my sweet\nloue\nClow. I haue a reasonable good eare in musicke. Let\nvs haue the tongs and the bones.\nMusicke Tongs, Rurall Musicke.\nTita. Or say sweete Loue, what thou desirest to eat\nClowne. Truly a pecke of Prouender; I could munch\nyour good dry Oates. Me-thinkes I haue a great desire\nto a bottle of hay: good hay, sweete hay hath no fellow\nTita. I haue a venturous Fairy,\nThat shall seeke the Squirrels hoard,\nAnd fetch thee new Nuts\nClown. I had rather haue a handfull or two of dried\npease. But I pray you let none of your people stirre me, I\nhaue an exposition of sleepe come vpon me\nTyta. Sleepe thou, and I will winde thee in my arms,\nFairies be gone, and be alwaies away.\nSo doth the woodbine, the sweet Honisuckle,\nGently entwist; the female Iuy so\nEnrings the barky fingers of the Elme.\nO how I loue thee! how I dote on thee!\nEnter Robin goodfellow and Oberon.\nOb. Welcome good Robin:\nSeest thou this sweet sight?\nHer dotage now I doe begin to pitty.\nFor meeting her of late behinde the wood,\nSeeking sweet sauours for this hatefull foole,\nI did vpbraid her, and fall out with her.\nFor she his hairy temples then had rounded,\nWith coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers.\nAnd that same dew which somtime on the buds,\nWas wont to swell like round and orient pearles;\nStood now within the pretty flouriets eyes,\nLike teares that did their owne disgrace bewaile.\nWhen I had at my pleasure taunted her,\nAnd she in milde termes beg'd my patience,\nI then did aske of her, her changeling childe,\nWhich straight she gaue me, and her fairy sent\nTo beare him to my Bower in Fairy Land.\nAnd now I haue the Boy, I will vndoe\nThis hatefull imperfection of her eyes.\nAnd gentle Pucke, take this transformed scalpe,\nFrom off the head of this Athenian swaine;\nThat he awaking when the other doe,\nMay all to Athens backe againe repaire,\nAnd thinke no more of this nights accidents,\nBut as the fierce vexation of dreame.\nBut first I will release the Fairy Queene.\nBe thou as thou wast wont to be;\nSee as thou wast wont to see.\nDians bud, or Cupids flower,\nHath such force and blessed power.\nNow my Titania wake you my sweet Queene\nTita. My Oberon, what visions haue I seene!\nMe-thought I was enamoured of an asse\nOb. There lies your loue\nTita. How came these things to passe?\nOh, how mine eyes doth loath this visage now!\nOb. Silence a while. Robin take off his head:\nTitania, musick call, and strike more dead\nThen common sleepe; of all these, fine the sense\nTita. Musicke, ho musicke, such as charmeth sleepe.\nMusick still.\nRob. When thou wak'st, with thine owne fooles eies\npeepe\nOb. Sound musick; come my Queen, take hands with me\nAnd rocke the ground whereon these sleepers be.\nNow thou and I new in amity,\nAnd will to morrow midnight, solemnly\nDance in Duke Theseus house triumphantly,\nAnd blesse it to all faire posterity.\nThere shall the paires of faithfull Louers be\nWedded, with Theseus, all in iollity\nRob. Faire King attend, and marke,\nI doe heare the morning Larke,\nOb. Then my Queene in silence sad,\nTrip we after the nights shade;\nWe the Globe can compasse soone,\nSwifter then the wandering Moone\nTita. Come my Lord, and in our flight,\nTell me how it came this night,\nThat I sleeping heere was found,\nSleepers Lye still.\nWith these mortals on the ground.\nExeunt.\nWinde Hornes.\nEnter Theseus, Egeus, Hippolita and all his traine.\nThes. Goe one of you, finde out the Forrester,\nFor now our obseruation is perform'd;\nAnd since we haue the vaward of the day,\nMy Loue shall heare the musicke of my hounds.\nVncouple in the Westerne valley, let them goe;\nDispatch I say, and finde the Forrester.\nWe will faire Queene, vp to the Mountains top,\nAnd marke the musicall confusion\nOf hounds and eccho in coniunction\nHip. I was with Hercules and Cadmus once.\nWhen in a wood of Creete they bayed the Beare\nWith hounds of Sparta; neuer did I heare\nSuch gallant chiding. For besides the groues,\nThe skies, the fountaines, euery region neere,\nSeeme all one mutuall cry. I neuer heard\nSo musicall a discord, such sweet thunder\nThes. My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kinde,\nSo flew'd, so sanded, and their heads are hung\nWith eares that sweepe away the morning dew,\nCrooke kneed, and dew-lapt, like Thessalian Buls,\nSlow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bels,\nEach vnder each. A cry more tuneable\nWas neuer hallowed to, nor cheer'd with horne,\nIn Creete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly;\nIudge when you heare. But soft, what nimphs are these?\nEgeus. My Lord, this is my daughter heere asleepe,\nAnd this Lysander, this Demetrius is,\nThis Helena, olde Nedars Helena,\nI wonder of this being heere together\nThe. No doubt they rose vp early, to obserue\nThe right of May; and hearing our intent,\nCame heere in grace of our solemnity.\nBut speake Egeus, is not this the day\nThat Hermia should giue answer of her choice?\nEgeus. It is, my Lord\nThes. Goe bid the hunts-men wake them with their\nhornes.\nHornes and they wake.\nShout within, they all start vp.\nThes. Good morrow friends: Saint Valentine is past,\nBegin these wood birds but to couple now?\nLys. Pardon my Lord\nThes. I pray you all stand vp.\nI know you two are Riuall enemies.\nHow comes this gentle concord in the world,\nThat hatred is so farre from iealousie,\nTo sleepe by hate, and feare no enmity\nLys. My Lord, I shall reply amazedly,\nHalfe sleepe, halfe waking. but as yet, I sweare,\nI cannot truly say how I came heere.\nBut as I thinke (for truly would I speake)\nAnd now I doe bethinke me, so it is;\nI came with Hermia hither. Our intent\nWas to be gone from Athens, where we might be\nWithout the perill of the Athenian Law\nEge. Enough, enough, my Lord: you haue enough;\nI beg the Law, the Law, vpon his head:\nThey would have stolne away, they would Demetrius,\nThereby to haue defeated you and me:\nYou of your wife, and me of my consent;\nOf my consent, that she should be your wife\nDem. My Lord, faire Helen told me of their stealth,\nOf this their purpose hither, to this wood,\nAnd I in furie hither followed them;\nFaire Helena, in fancy followed me.\nBut my good Lord, I wot not by what not by what power,\n(But by some power it is) my loue\nTo Hermia (melted as the snow)\nSeems to me now as the remembrance of an idle gaude,\nWhich in my childehood I did doat vpon:\nAnd all the faith, the vertue of my heart,\nThe obiect and the pleasure of mine eye,\nIs onely Helena. To her, my Lord,\nWas I betroth'd, ere I see Hermia,\nBut like a sickenesse did I loath this food,\nBut as in health, come to my naturall taste,\nNow doe I wish it, loue it, long for it,\nAnd will for euermore be true to it\nThes. Faire Louers, you are fortunately met;\nOf this discourse we shall heare more anon.\nEgeus, I will ouer-beare your will;\nFor in the Temple, by and by with vs,\nThese couples shall eternally be knit.\nAnd for the morning now is something worne,\nOur purpos'd hunting shall be set aside.\nAway, with vs to Athens; three and three,\nWee'll hold a feast in great solemnitie.\nCome Hippolita.\nExit Duke and Lords.\nDem. These things seeme small & vndistinguishable,\nLike farre off mountaines turned into Clouds\nHer. Me-thinks I see these things with parted eye,\nWhen euery thing seemes double\nHel. So me-thinkes:\nAnd I haue found Demetrius, like a iewell,\nMine owne, and not mine owne\nDem. It seemes to mee,\nThat yet we sleepe, we dreame. Do not you thinke,\nThe Duke was heere, and bid vs follow him?\nHer. Yea, and my Father\nHel. And Hippolita\nLys. And he bid vs follow to the Temple\nDem. Why then we are awake; lets follow him, and\nby the way let vs recount our dreames.\nBottome wakes.\nExit Louers.\nClo. When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer.\nMy next is, most faire Piramus. Hey ho. Peter Quince?\nFlute the bellowes-mender? Snout the tinker? Starueling?\nGods my life! Stolne hence, and left me asleepe: I\nhaue had a most rare vision. I had a dreame, past the wit\nof man, to say, what dreame it was. Man is but an Asse,\nif he goe about to expound this dreame. Me-thought I\nwas, there is no man can tell what. Me-thought I was,\nand me-thought I had. But man is but a patch'd foole,\nif he will offer to say, what me-thought I had. The eye of\nman hath not heard, the eare of man hath not seen, mans\nhand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceiue, nor his\nheart to report, what my dreame was. I will get Peter\nQuince to write a ballet of this dreame, it shall be called\nBottomes Dreame, because it hath no bottome; and I will\nsing it in the latter end of a play, before the Duke. Peraduenture,\nto make it the more gracious, I shall sing it\nat her death.\nEnter.\nEnter Quince, Flute, Thisbie, Snout, and Starueling.\nQuin. Haue you sent to Bottomes house? Is he come\nhome yet?\nStaru. He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt hee is\ntransported\nThis. If he come not, then the play is mar'd. It goes\nnot forward, doth it?\nQuin. It is not possible: you haue not a man in all\nAthens, able to discharge Piramus but he\nThis. No, hee hath simply the best wit of any handycraft\nman in Athens\nQuin. Yea, and the best person too, and hee is a very\nParamour, for a sweet voyce\nThis. You must say, Paragon. A Paramour is (God\nblesse vs) a thing of nought.\nEnter Snug the Ioyner.\nSnug. Masters, the Duke is comming from the Temple,\nand there is two or three Lords & Ladies more married.\nIf our sport had gone forward, we had all bin made\nmen\nThis. O sweet bully Bottome: thus hath he lost sixepence\na day, during his life; he could not haue scaped sixpence\na day. And the Duke had not giuen him sixpence\na day for playing Piramus, Ile be hang'd. He would haue\ndeserued it. Sixpence a day in Piramus, or nothing.\nEnter Bottome.\nBot. Where are these Lads? Where are these hearts?\nQuin. Bottome, o most couragious day! O most happie\nhoure!\nBot. Masters, I am to discourse wonders; but ask me\nnot what. For if I tell you, I am no true Athenian. I\nwill tell you euery thing as it fell out\nQu. Let vs heare, sweet Bottome\nBot. Not a word of me: all that I will tell you, is, that\nthe Duke hath dined. Get your apparell together, good\nstrings to your beards, new ribbands to your pumps,\nmeete presently at the Palace, euery man looke ore his\npart: for the short and the long is, our play is preferred:\nIn any case let Thisby haue cleane linnen: and let not him\nthat playes the Lion, paire his nailes, for they shall hang\nout for the Lions clawes. And most deare Actors, eate\nno Onions, nor Garlicke; for wee are to vtter sweete\nbreath, and I doe not doubt but to heare them say, it is a\nsweet Comedy. No more words: away, go away.\nExeunt.\nActus Quintus.\nEnter Theseus, Hippolita, Egeus and his Lords.\nHip. 'Tis strange my Theseus, y these louers speake of\nThe. More strange then true. I neuer may beleeue\nThese anticke fables, nor these Fairy toyes,\nLouers and mad men haue such seething braines,\nSuch shaping phantasies, that apprehend more\nThen coole reason euer comprehends.\nThe Lunaticke, the Louer, and the Poet,\nAre of imagination all compact.\nOne sees more diuels then vaste hell can hold;\nThat is the mad man. The Louer, all as franticke,\nSees Helens beauty in a brow of Egipt.\nThe Poets eye in a fine frenzy rolling, doth glance\nFrom heauen to earth, from earth to heauen.\nAnd as imagination bodies forth the forms of things\nVnknowne; the Poets pen turnes them to shapes,\nAnd giues to aire nothing, a locall habitation,\nAnd a name. Such tricks hath strong imagination,\nThat if it would but apprehend some ioy,\nIt comprehends some bringer of that ioy.\nOr in the night, imagining some feare,\nHowe easie is a bush suppos'd a Beare?\nHip. But all the storie of the night told ouer,\nAnd all their minds transfigur'd so together,\nMore witnesseth than fancies images,\nAnd growes to something of great constancie;\nBut howsoeuer, strange, and admirable.\nEnter louers, Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, and Helena.\nThe. Heere come the louers, full of ioy and mirth:\nIoy, gentle friends, ioy and fresh dayes\nOf loue accompany your hearts\nLys. More then to vs, waite in your royall walkes,\nyour boord, your bed\nThe. Come now, what maskes, what dances shall\nwe haue,\nTo weare away this long age of three houres,\nBetween our after supper, and bed-time?\nWhere is our vsuall manager of mirth?\nWhat Reuels are in hand? Is there no play,\nTo ease the anguish of a torturing houre?\nCall Egeus\nEge. Heere mighty Theseus\nThe. Say, what abridgement haue you for this euening?\nWhat maske? What musicke? How shall we beguile\nThe lazie time, if not with some delight?\nEge. There is a breefe how many sports are rife:\nMake choise of which your Highnesse will see first\nLis. The battell with the Centaurs to be sung\nBy an Athenian Eunuch, to the Harpe\nThe. Wee'l none of that. That haue I told my Loue\nIn glory of my kinsman Hercules\nLis. The riot of the tipsie Bachanals,\nTearing the Thracian singer, in their rage?\nThe. That is an old deuice, and it was plaid\nWhen I from Thebes came last a Conqueror\nLis. The thrice three Muses, mourning for the death\nof learning, late deceast in beggerie\nThe. That is some Satire keene and criticall,\nNot sorting with a nuptiall ceremonie\nLis. A tedious breefe Scene of yong Piramus,\nAnd his loue Thisby; very tragicall mirth\nThe. Merry and tragicall? Tedious, and briefe? That\nis, hot ice, and wondrous strange snow. How shall wee\nfinde the concord of this discord?\nEge. A play there is, my Lord, some ten words long,\nWhich is as breefe, as I haue knowne a play;\nBut by ten words, my Lord, it is too long;\nWhich makes it tedious. For in all the play,\nThere is not one word apt, one Player fitted.\nAnd tragicall my noble Lord it is: for Piramus\nTherein doth kill himselfe. Which when I saw\nRehearst, I must confesse, made mine eyes water:\nBut more merrie teares, the passion of loud laughter\nNeuer shed\nThes. What are they that do play it?\nEge. Hard handed men, that worke in Athens heere,\nWhich neuer labour'd in their mindes till now;\nAnd now haue toyled their vnbreathed memories\nWith this same play, against your nuptiall\nThe. And we will heare it\nHip. No my noble Lord, it is not for you. I haue heard\nIt ouer, and it is nothing, nothing in the world;\nVnless you can finde sport in their intents,\nExtreamely stretched, and cond with cruell paine,\nTo doe you seruice\nThes. I will heare that play. For neuer any thing\nCan be amisse, when simplenesse and duty tender it.\nGoe bring them in, and take your places, Ladies\nHip. I loue not to see wretchednesse orecharged;\nAnd duty in his seruice perishing\nThes. Why gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing\nHip. He saies, they can doe nothing in this kinde\nThes. The kinder we, to giue them thanks for nothing\nOur sport shall be, to take what they mistake;\nAnd what poore duty cannot doe, noble respect\nTakes it in might, not merit.\nWhere I haue come, great Clearkes haue purposed\nTo greete me with premeditated welcomes;\nWhere I haue seene them shiuer and looke pale,\nMake periods in the midst of sentences,\nThrottle their practiz'd accent in their feares,\nAnd in conclusion, dumbly haue broke off,\nNot paying me a welcome. Trust me sweete,\nOut of this silence yet, I pickt a welcome:\nAnd in the modesty of fearefull duty,\nI read as much, as from the ratling tongue\nOf saucy and audacious eloquence.\nLoue therefore, and tongue-tide simplicity,\nIn least, speake most, to my capacity\nEgeus. So please your Grace, the Prologue is addrest\nDuke. Let him approach.\nFlor. Trum.\nEnter the Prologue. Quince.\nPro. If we offend, it is with our good will.\nThat you should thinke, we come not to offend,\nBut with good will. To shew our simple skill,\nThat is the true beginning of our end.\nConsider then, we come but in despight.\nWe do not come, as minding to content you,\nOur true intent is. All for your delight,\nWe are not heere. That you should here repent you,\nThe Actors are at hand; and by their show,\nYou shall know all, that you are like to know\nThes. This fellow doth not stand vpon points\nLys. He hath rid his Prologue, like a rough Colt: he\nknowes not the stop. A good morall my lord. it is not\nenough to speake, but to speake true\nHip. Indeed hee hath plaid on his Prologue, like a\nchilde on a Recorder, a sound, but not in gouernment\nThes. His speech was like a tangled chaine: nothing\nimpaired, but all disordered. Who is next?\nTawyer with a Trumpet before them.\nEnter Pyramus and Thisby, Wall, Moone-shine, and Lyon.\nProl. Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show,\nBut wonder on, till truth make all things plaine.\nThis man is Piramus, if you would know;\nThis beauteous Lady, Thisby is certaine.\nThis man, with lyme and rough-cast, doth present\nWall, that vile wall, which did these louers sunder:\nAnd through walls chink (poor soules) they are content\nTo whisper. At the which, let no man wonder.\nThis man, with Lanthorne, dog, and bush of thorne,\nPresenteth moone-shine. For if you will know,\nBy moone-shine did these Louers thinke no scorne\nTo meet at Ninus toombe, there, there to wooe:\nThis grizly beast (which Lyon hight by name)\nThe trusty Thisby, comming first by night,\nDid scarre away, or rather did affright:\nAnd as she fled, her mantle she did fall;\nWhich Lyon vile with bloody mouth did staine.\nAnon comes Piramus, sweet youth and tall,\nAnd findes his Thisbies Mantle slaine;\nWhereat, with blade, with bloody blamefull blade,\nHe brauely broacht his boiling bloudy breast,\nAnd Thisby, tarrying in Mulberry shade,\nHis dagger drew, and died. For all the rest,\nLet Lyon, Moone-shine, Wall, and Louers twaine,\nAt large discourse, while here they doe remaine.\nExit all but Wall.\nThes. I wonder if the Lion be to speake\nDeme. No wonder, my Lord: one Lion may, when\nmany Asses doe.\nExit Lyon, Thisbie, and Mooneshine.\nWall. In this same Interlude, it doth befall,\nThat I, one Snowt (by name) present a wall:\nAnd such a wall, as I would haue you thinke,\nThat had in it a crannied hole or chinke:\nThrough which the Louers, Piramus and Thisbie\nDid whisper often, very secretly.\nThis loame, this rough-cast, and this stone doth shew,\nThat I am that same Wall; the truth is so.\nAnd this the cranny is, right and sinister,\nThrough which the fearfull Louers are to whisper\nThes. Would you desire Lime and Haire to speake\nbetter?\nDeme. It is the wittiest partition, that euer I heard\ndiscourse, my Lord\nThes. Pyramus drawes neere the Wall, silence.\nEnter Pyramus.\nPir. O grim lookt night, o night with hue so blacke,\nO night, which euer art, when day is not:\nO night, o night, alacke, alacke, alacke,\nI feare my Thisbies promise is forgot.\nAnd thou o wall, thou sweet and louely wall,\nThat stands between her fathers ground and mine,\nThou wall, o Wall, o sweet and louely wall,\nShew me thy chinke, to blinke through with mine eine.\nThankes courteous wall. Ioue shield thee well for this.\nBut what see I? No Thisbie doe I see.\nO wicked wall, through whom I see no blisse,\nCurst be thy stones for thus deceiuing mee\nThes. The wall me-thinkes being sensible, should\ncurse againe\nPir. No in truth sir, he should not. Deceiuing me,\nIs Thisbies cue; she is to enter, and I am to spy\nHer through the wall. You shall see it will fall.\nEnter Thisbie.\nPat as I told you; yonder she comes\nThis. O wall, full often hast thou heard my mones,\nFor parting my faire Piramus, and me\nMy cherry lips haue often kist thy stones;\nThy stones with Lime and Haire knit vp in thee\nPyra. I see a voyce; now will I to the chinke,\nTo spy and I can heare my Thisbies face. Thisbie?\nThis. My Loue thou art, my Loue I thinke\nPir. Thinke what thou wilt, I am thy Louers grace,\nAnd like Limander am I trusty still\nThis. And like Helen till the Fates me kill\nPir. Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true\nThis. As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you\nPir. O kisse me through the hole of this vile wall\nThis. I kisse the wals hole, not your lips at all\nPir. Wilt thou at Ninnies tombe meete me straight\nway?\nThis. Tide life, tide death, I come without delay\nWall. Thus haue I Wall, my part discharged so;\nAnd being done, thus Wall away doth go.\nExit Clow.\nDu. Now is the morall downe between the two\nNeighbours\nDem. No remedie my Lord, when Wals are so wilfull,\nto heare without warning\nDut. This is the silliest stuffe that ere I heard\nDu. The best in this kind are but shadowes, and the\nworst are no worse, if imagination amend them\nDut. It must be your imagination then, & not theirs\nDuk. If wee imagine no worse of them then they of\nthemselues, they may passe for excellent men. Here com\ntwo noble beasts, in a man and a Lion.\nEnter Lyon and Moone-shine\nLyon. You Ladies, you (whose gentle harts do feare\nThe smallest monstrous mouse that creepes on floore)\nMay now perchance, both quake and tremble heere,\nWhen Lion rough in wildest rage doth roare.\nThen know that I, one Snug the Ioyner am\nA Lion fell, nor else no Lions dam:\nFor if I should as Lion come in strife\nInto this place, 'twere pittie of my life\nDu. A verie gentle beast, and of good conscience\nDem. The verie best at a beast, my Lord, y ere I saw\nLis. This Lion is a verie Fox for his valor\nDu. True, and a Goose for his discretion\nDem. Not so my Lord: for his valor cannot carrie\nhis discretion, and the fox carries the Goose\nDu. His discretion I am sure cannot carrie his valor:\nfor the Goose carries not the Fox. It is well; leaue it to\nhis discretion, and let vs hearken to the Moone\nMoone. This Lanthorne doth the horned Moone present\nDe. He should haue worne the hornes on his head\nDu. Hee is no crescent, and his hornes are inuisible,\nwithin the circumference\nMoon. This lanthorne doth the horned Moone present:\nMy selfe, the man i'th Moone doth seeme to be\nDu. This is the greatest error of all the rest; the man\nShould be put into the Lanthorne. How is it els the man\ni'th Moone?\nDem. He dares not come there for the candle.\nFor you see, it is already in snuffe\nDut. I am wearie of this Moone; would he would\nchange\nDu. It appeares by his smal light of discretion, that\nhe is in the wane: but yet in courtesie, in all reason, we\nmust stay the time\nLys. Proceed Moone\nMoon. All that I haue to say, is to tell you, that the\nLanthorne is the Moone; I, the man in the Moone; this\nthorne bush; my thorne bush; and this dog, my dog\nDem. Why all these should be in the Lanthorne: for\nthey are in the Moone. But silence, heere comes Thisby.\nEnter Thisby.\nThis. This is old Ninnies tombe: where is my loue?\nLyon. Oh.\nThe Lion roares, Thisby runs off.\nDem. Well roar'd Lion\nDu. Well run Thisby\nDut. Well shone Moone.\nTruly the Moone shines with a good grace\nDu. Wel mouz'd Lion\nDem. And then came Piramus\nLys. And so the Lion vanisht.\nEnter Piramus.\nPyr. Sweet Moone, I thank thee for thy sunny beames,\nI thanke thee Moone, for shining now so bright:\nFor by thy gracious, golden, glittering beames,\nI trust to taste of truest Thisbies sight.\nBut stay: O spight! but marke, poore Knight,\nWhat dreadful dole is heere?\nEyes do you see! How can it be!\nO dainty Ducke: O Deere!\nThy mantle good; what staind with blood!\nApproch you furies fell:\nO Fates! come, come: Cut thred and thrum,\nQuaile, crush, conclude, and quell\nDu. This passion, and the death of a deare friend,\nWould go neere to make a man looke sad\nDut. Beshrew my heart, but I pittie the man\nPir. O wherefore Nature, did'st thou Lions frame?\nSince lion vilde hath heere deflour'd my deere:\nWhich is: no, no, which was the fairest Dame\nThat liu'd, that lou'd, that like'd, that look'd with cheere.\nCome teares, confound: Out sword, and wound\nThe pap of Piramus:\nI, that left pap, where heart doth hop;\nThus dye I, thus, thus, thus.\nNow am I dead, now am I fled, my soule is in the sky,\nTongue lose thy light, Moone take thy flight,\nNow dye, dye, dye, dye, dye\nDem. No Die, but an ace for him; for he is but one\nLis. Lesse then an ace man. For he is dead, he is nothing\nDu. With the helpe of a Surgeon, he might yet recouer,\nand proue an Asse\nDut. How chance Moone-shine is gone before?\nThisby comes backe, and findes her Louer.\nEnter Thisby.\nDuke. She wil finde him by starre-light.\nHeere she comes, and her passion ends the play\nDut. Me thinkes shee should not vse a long one for\nsuch a Piramus: I hope she will be breefe\nDem. A Moth wil turne the ballance, which Piramus\nwhich Thisby is the better\nLys. She hath spyed him already, with those sweete eyes\nDem. And thus she meanes, videlicit\nThis. Asleepe my Loue? What, dead my Doue?\nO Piramus arise:\nSpeake, speake. Quite dumbe? Dead, dead? A tombe\nMust couer thy sweet eyes.\nThese Lilly Lips, this cherry nose,\nThese yellow Cowslip cheekes\nAre gone, are gone: Louers make mone:\nHis eyes were greene as Leekes.\nO Sisters three, come, come to mee,\nWith hands as pale as Milke,\nLay them in gore, since you haue shore\nwith sheeres, his thred of silke.\nTongue not a word: Come trusty sword:\nCome blade, my brest imbrue:\nAnd farwell friends, thus Thisbie ends;\nAdieu, adieu, adieu\nDuk. Moone-shine & Lion are left to burie the dead\nDeme. I, and Wall too\nBot. No, I assure you, the wall is downe, that parted\ntheir Fathers. Will it please you to see the Epilogue, or\nto heare a Bergomask dance, betweene two of our company?\nDuk. No Epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs\nno excuse. Neuer excuse; for when the plaiers are all\ndead, there need none to be blamed. Marry, if hee that\nwrit it had plaid Piramus, and hung himselfe in Thisbies\ngarter, it would haue beene a fine Tragedy: and so it is\ntruely, and very notably discharg'd. but come, your\nBurgomaske; let your Epilogue alone.\nThe iron tongue of midnight hath told twelue.\nLouers to bed, 'tis almost Fairy time.\nI feare we shall out-sleepe the comming morne,\nAs much as we this night haue ouer-watcht.\nThis palpable grosse play hath well beguil'd\nThe heauy gate of night. Sweet friends to bed.\nA fortnight hold we this solemnity.\nIn nightly Reuels; and new iollitie.\nExeunt.\nEnter Pucke.\nPuck. Now the hungry Lyons rores,\nAnd the Wolfe beholds the Moone:\nWhilest the heauy ploughman snores,\nAll with weary taske fore-done.\nNow the wasted brands doe glow,\nWhil'st the scritch-owle, scritching loud,\nPuts the wretch that lies in woe,\nIn remembrance of a shrowd.\nNow it is the time of night,\nThat the graues, all gaping wide,\nEuery one lets forth his spright,\nIn the Church-way paths to glide,\nAnd we Fairies, that do runne,\nBy the triple Hecates teame,\nFrom the presence of the Sunne,\nFollowing darkenesse like a dreame,\nNow are frollicke; not a Mouse\nShall disturbe this hallowed house.\nI am sent with broome before,\nTo sweep the dust behinde the doore.\nEnter King and Queene of Fairies, with their traine.\nOb. Through the house giue glimmering light,\nBy the dead and drowsie fier,\nEuerie Elfe and Fairie spright,\nHop as light as bird from brier,\nAnd this Ditty after me, sing and dance it trippinglie,\nTita. First rehearse this song by roate,\nTo each word a warbling note.\nHand in hand, with Fairie grace,\nWill we sing and blesse this place.\nThe Song.\nNow vntill the breake of day,\nThrough this house each Fairy stray.\nTo the best Bride-bed will we,\nWhich by vs shall blessed be:\nAnd the issue there create,\nEuer shall be fortunate:\nSo shall all the couples three,\nEuer true in louing be:\nAnd the blots of Natures hand,\nShall not in their issue stand.\nNeuer mole, harelip, nor scarre,\nnor mark prodigious, such as are\nDespised in Natiuitie,\nShall vpon their children be.\nWith this field dew consecrate,\nEuery Fairy take his gate,\nAnd each seuerall chamber blesse,\nThrough this Pallace with sweet peace,\nEuer shall in safety rest.\nAnd the owner of it blest.\nTrip away, make no stay;\nMeet me all by breake of day\nRobin. If we shadowes haue offended,\nThinke but this (and all is mended)\nThat you haue but slumbred heere,\nWhile these Visions did appeare.\nAnd this weake and idle theame,\nNo more yeelding but a dreame,\nGentles, doe not reprehend.\nIf you pardon, we will mend.\nAnd as I am an honest Pucke,\nIf we haue vnearned lucke,\nNow to scape the Serpents tongue,\nWe will make amends ere long:\nElse the Pucke a lyar call.\nSo good night vnto you all.\nGiue me your hands, if we be friends,\nAnd Robin shall restore amends.\nFINIS. A MIDSOMMER Nights Dreame.","title":"A Midsommer Nights Dreame","type":"page"}