Imatges de pÓgina

Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snowt, and Straveling. Quin. Is all our Company here?

Bot. You were beft to call them generally, Man by Man, according to the Scrip.

Quin. Here is the Scrowl of every Man's Name, which is thought fit through all Athens, to play in our Enterlude before the Duke and the Dutchefs, on his Wedding-day at Night.

Bot. First, good Peter Quince, fay what the Play treats then read the Names of the Actors; and fo grow on to a Point.


Quin. Marry, our Play is the most lamentable Comedy, and moft cruel Death of Pyramus and Thisby.

Bot. A very good piece of Work I affure you, and a merry. Now good Peter Quince, call forth your Actors by the Scrowl. Mafters fpread your felves.


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Quin. Anfwer as I call you.

Nick Bottom the Wea

Bot. Ready: Name what part I am for, and proceed. Quin. You, Nick Bottom, are fet down for Pyramus. Bot. What is Pyramus, a Lover, or a Tyrant? Quin. A Lover that kills himself moft gallantly for Love.

Bot. That will ask fome Tears in the true performing of it; if I do it, let the Audience look to their Eyes; I will condole in fome meafure. To the reft yet, my chief Humour is for a Tyrant; I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a Cat in, to make all split to raging Rocks, and shivering Shocks fhall break the Locks of Prison-Gates, and Phibbus's Carr fhall fhine from far, and make and mar the Foolith Fates. This was lofty. Now name the rest of the PlayThis is Ercles Veir, a Tyrant's Vein; a Lover is more condoling.


Quin. Francis Flute the Bellows-mender.

Flu. Here Peter Quince.

Quin. You must take Thisby on you.

Flu. What is Thisby, a wandring Knight?

Quin. It is the Lady that Pyramus must love.

Flu. Nay faith, let not me play a Woman, I have a Beard coming.

Quin. That's all one, you fhall play it in a Mask, and you may fpeak as fmall as you will.

Bot. And I may hide my Face, let me play Thisby too; I'll speak in a monftrous little Voice, Thifne, Thine, ah Pyramus my Lover dear, thy Thisby dear, and Lady


Quin. No, no, you must play Pyramus, and Flute your Thisby.

Bot. Well, proceed.

Quin. Robin Starveling the Taylor.

Star. Here Peter Quince.

Quin. Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby's Mother.

Tom Snowt, the Tinker.

Snowt. Here Peter Quince.

Quin. You Pyramus's Father; my felf, Thisby's Father; Snug, the Joiner, you the Lion's part; and I hope there is a Play fitted.

Snug. Have you the Lion's Part written? Pray you if it be give it me, for I am flow of Study.

Quin. You may do it Extempore, for it is nothing but Roaring.


Bot. Let me play the Lion too, I will roar, that I will any Man's Heart good to hear me. I will roar, that I will make the Duke fay, Let him roar again, let him roar again.

Quin. If you fhould do it too terribly, you would fright the Dutchefs and the Ladies, that they would fhriek, and that were enough to hang us all.

All. That would hang us every Mother's Son.

Bot. I grant you Friend, if that you should fright the Ladies out of their Wits, they would have no more Difcretion but to hang us; but I will aggravate my Voice fo, that I will roar you as gently as any fucking Dove; I will roar and 'twere any Nightingal.

Quin. You can play no Part but Pyramus, for Pyramus iş a fweet-fac'd Man, a proper Man as one fhall fee in a Summer's Day; amoft lovely Gentleman-like-mar, therefore you muft needs play Pyramus.

Bot. Well, I will undertake it. What Beard were I beft to play it in?

Quin. Why, what you will.

Bot. I will difcharge it in either your Straw-colour Beard, your Orange-tawny Beard, your Purple-in-grain Beard, or your French-colour'd Beard, your perfect yellow.

Quin. Some of your French-Crowns have no Hair at all, and then you will play bare-fac'd. But Mafters here are your Parts, and I am to entreat you, request you, and defire you, to con them by to Morrow Night; and meet me in the Palace Wood, a Mile without the Town, by Moonlight, there we will Rehearfe; for if we meet in the City, we fhall be dog'd with Company, and our Devices known. In the mean time I will draw a Bill of Properties, fuch as our Play wants. I pray you fail not.

Bot. We will meet, and there we may rehearse more obfcenely and courageoufly. Take pain, be perfect, adieu. Quin. At the Duke's Oak we meet. Bot. Enough, hold or cut Bow-ftrings.




Enter a Fairy at one Door, and Puck or Robin-goodfellow at another.

Puck H Fat Over Hill, over Dale, through Bush, through

W now Spirit, whither wander you?



Over Park, over Pale, through Flood, through Fire, (Briar,
I do wander every where, fwifter than the Moon's Sphere;
And I ferve the Fairy Queen, to dew her Orbs upon the
The Cowflips tall her Penfioners be,
In their gold Coats Spots you fee,
Thofe be Rubies, Fairy favours,
In thofe Freckles live their Savours:
I must go feek fome Dew-Drops here,
And hang a Pearl in every Cówflip's Ear.
Farewel thou Lob of Spirits, I'll be gone,
Our Queen and all her Elves come here anon.

Puck The King doth keep his Revels here to Night,


Take heed the Queen come not within his Sight,
For Oberon is paffing fell and wrath,
Because that she, as her Attendant, hath
A lovely Boy ftol'n from an Indian King,
She never had fo fweet a Changeling,
And jealous Oberon would have the Child
Knight of his Train, to trace the Forefts wild;
But the per-force with-holds the loved Boy,
Crowns him with Flowers, and makes him all her Joy:
And now they never meet in Grove, or Green,
By Fountain clear, or fpangled Star-light heen,
But they do fquare, that all their Elves for fear
Creep into Acorn Cups, and hide them there.

Fai. Either I miftake your Shape and Making quite,
Or elfe you are that fhrew'd and knavish Sprite
Call'd Robin-goodfellow. 'Are you not he,
That fright the Maidens of the Villageree,
Skim Milk, and fometimes labour in the Quern,
And bootlefs make the breathlefs Hufwife chern
And fometime make the Drink to bear no Barme
Mifs-lead Night-wanderers, laughing at their Harm,
Thofe that Hobgoblin call you, and fweet Puck
You do their Work, and they fhall have good Luck.
Are not you he?

Puck. Thou fpeak'ft aright;

I am that merry Wanderer of the Night:
I jeft to Oberon, and make him fmile,
When I a fat and bean-fed Horfe beguile.
Neighing in likeness like a filly Foal:
And fometimes lurk I in a Goffip's Bowl,
In very likeness of a roafted Crab,

And when the drinks, again her Lips I bob,
And on her whithered Dewlop pour the Ale.
The wifeft Aunt telling the faddeft Tale,
Sometime for three-foot Stool mistaketh me,
Then flip I from her Bum, down topples fhe,
And Tailor cries, and falls into a Cough,

And then the whole Quire hold their Hips, and loffe,

And waxen in their Mirth, and neeze and fwear,

A merrier Hour was never wafted there.

But room, Fairy, here comes Oberon.

Fai. And here my Mistress:

Would that we were gone.

Enter Oberon King of Fairies at one Door with his Train, and the Queen at another with hers.

Ob. I'll met by Moon-light,

Proud Titania.

Queen. What, jealous Oberon? Fairy, skip hence,
I have forfworn his Bed and Company.

Ob. Tarry rafh Wanton, am not I thy Lord?
Queen. Then I must be thy Lady; but I know
When thou waft ftoll'n away from Fairy Land,
And in the fhape of Corin fate all Day,
Playing on Pipes of Corn, and verfing Love
To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here,
Come from the fartheft steep of India?
But that forfooth the bouncing Amazon,
Your buskin'd Miftrefs, and your Warrior Love,
To Thefeus must be wedded, and you come,
To give their Bed Joy and Profperity.

Ob. How can't thou thus for fhame, Titania,
Glance at my Credit with Hippolita,

Knowing I know thy Love to Thefeus?

Didft thou not lead him through the glimmering Night
From Peregenia, whom he ravished,

And make him with fair Egle break his faith,
With Ariadne, and Antiopa?

Queen. Thefe are the Forgeries of Jealoufie,
And never fince the middle Summer's Spring,
Met we on Hill, in Dale, Foreft, or Mead,
By paved Fountain, or by rufhy Brook,
Or in the beached Margent of the Sea,
To dance our Ringlets to the whifling Wind,
But with thy Brawls thou haft difturb'd our Sport.
Therefore the Winds piping to us in vain,
As in Revenge have fuck'd up from the Sea,
Contagious Fogs; which falling in the Land,
Hath every petty R ver made fo proud,
That they have over-born their Continents.
The Ox hath therefore ftretch'd his Yoak in vain
The Ploughman loft his Sweat, and the green Corn
Hath rotted, e'er his Youth attain'd a Beard


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