He should have worn the horns on his head.
He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within
This lanthorn doth the horned moon present;
Myself the man i' the moon do seem to be.
This is the greatest error of all the rest: the man should be
put into the lantern. How is it else the man i' the moon?
He dares not come there for the candle: for, you
see, it is already in snuff.
I am aweary of this moon: would he would change!
It appears, by his small light of discretion, that he
is in the wane: but yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we must
stay the time.
All that I have to say, is to tell you that the lantern
is the moon; I, the man i' the moon; this thorn-bush, my
thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog.
Why, all these should be in the lantern; for all
these are in the moon. But silence; here comes Thisbe.
This is old Ninny's tomb. Where is my love?
[The LION roars. — THISBE runs off.]
Well roared, lion.
Well run, Thisbe.
Well shone, moon. — Truly, the moon shines with a good grace.
[The LION tears THISBE'S Mantle, and exit.]
Well moused, lion.
And so comes Pyramus.
And then the lion vanishes.
Sweet moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams;
I thank thee, moon, for shining now so bright:
For, by thy gracious golden, glittering streams,
I trust to take of truest Thisby's sight.
But stay; — O spite!
But mark, — poor knight,
What dreadful dole is here!
Eyes, do you see?
How can it be?
O dainty duck! O dear!
Thy mantle good,
What! stained with blood?
Approach, ye furies fell!
O fates! come, come;
Cut thread and thrum;
Quail, rush, conclude, and quell!
This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go
near to make a man look sad.
Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.
O wherefore, nature, didst thou lions frame?
Since lion vile hath here deflower'd my dear;
Which is — no, no — which was the fairest dame
That liv'd, that lov'd, that lik'd, that look'd with cheer.
Come, tears, confound;
Out, sword, and wound
The pap of Pyramus:
Ay, that left pap,
Where heart doth hop: —
Thus die I, thus, thus, thus.
Now am I dead,
Now am I fled;
My soul is in the sky:
Tongue, lose thy light!
Moon, take thy flight!
Now die, die, die, die, die.
[Dies. Exit MOONSHINE.]
No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one.
Less than an ace, man; for he is dead; he is nothing.
With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover and prove an ass.
How chance moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes
back and finds her lover?
She will find him by starlight. — Here she comes; and
her passion ends the play.
Methinks she should not use a long one for such a
Pyramus: I hope she will be brief.
A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which
Thisbe, is the better.
She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes.
And thus she moans, videlicet. —
Asleep, my love?
What, dead, my dove?
O Pyramus, arise,
Speak, speak. Quite dumb?
Dead, dead? A tomb
Must cover thy sweet eyes.
These lily lips,
This cherry nose,
These yellow cowslip cheeks,
Are gone, are gone:
Lovers, make moan!
His eyes were green as leeks.
O Sisters Three,
Come, come to me,
With hands as pale as milk;
Lay them in gore,
Since you have shore
With shears his thread of silk.
Tongue, not a word: —
Come, trusty sword;
Come, blade, my breast imbrue;
And farewell, friends: —
Thus Thisbe ends;
Adieu, adieu, adieu.
Moonshine and lion are left to bury the dead.
Ay, and wall too.
No, I assure you; the wall is down that parted their fathers.
Will it please you to see the epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask
dance between two of our company?
No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no
excuse. Never excuse; for when the players are all dead there
need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ it had played
Pyramus, and hang'd himself in Thisbe's garter, it would have
been a fine tragedy: and so it is, truly; and very notably
discharged. But come, your Bergomask; let your epilogue alone.
[Here a dance of Clowns.]
The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve: —
Lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time.
I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn,
As much as we this night have overwatch'd.
This palpable-gross play hath well beguil'd
The heavy gait of night. — Sweet friends, to bed. —
A fortnight hold we this solemnity,
In nightly revels and new jollity.