BOTTOM

You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip. A very good piece of work, I assure you, & a mere ry. Now good Peeter Quince, call forth your Actors, by the scroll. Master's, spread your selves. Well, proceed. I grant you, friends, if you should fright the Ladies out of their wits, they would have no more discretion, but to hang us: but I will aggravate my voice so, that I will roar you as gently, as any sucking dove: I will roar you, and 'twere any Nightingale. Well: I will undertake it. What beard were I best to play it in? I will discharge it, in either your straw colour beard, your Orange Tawny beard, your purple in grain beard, or your french crown colour beard, your perfect yellow. Enough: hold, or cut bowstrings. Exeunt. There are things in this Comedy, of Pyramus and Thisbe, that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword, to kill himself; which the Ladies cannot abide. How answer you that? No: make it two more: let it be written in eight & eight. Master's, you ought to consider with your self, to bring in (God shield us) a Lion among Ladies, is a most dreadful thing. For there is not a more fearful wild foul then your Lion living: & we ought to look toot. Nay: you must name his name, and half his face must be seen through the Lions neck, and he himself must speak through, saying thus, or to the same defect; Ladies, or fair Ladies, I would wish you, or I would re quest you, or I would entreat you, not to fear, not to tre ̄ ble: my life for yours. If you think I come hither as a Lion, it were pity of my life. No: I am no such thing: I am a man as other men are: & there indeed, let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug, the Joiner. Some man or other must present wall: and let him have some plaster, or some loom, or some rough cast, about him, to signify wall; or let him hold his fingers thus: and through that cranny, shall Pyramus and Thisbe whis per. What do you see? You see and Ass head of your own. Do you? I see their knavery. This is to make and ass of me, to fright me, if they could: but I will not stir from this place, do what they can. I will walk up and down here, and I will sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid. The Woosell cock, so black of hew, With Orange tawny bill, The Throstle, with his note so true, The Wren, with little quill. The Fynch, the Sparrow, and the Lark, The plainsong Cuckoo grey: Whose note, full many a man does mark, And dares not answer, nay. For indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a bird? Who would give a bird the lie, though he cry Cuckoo, never so? I cry your worships mercy, heartily: I beseech your worships name. I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good ma ster Cobweb : if I cut my finger, I shall make bold with you. Your name honest gentleman? I pray you commend me to mistress Squash, your mother, and to master Peascod, your father. Good master Peas-blossom, I shall desire you of more acquaintance, to. Your name I beseech you sir? Good master Mustardseed, I know your patience will. That same cowardly, giantlike, Ox-beefe hath de vourd many a gentleman of your house. I promise you, your kindred hath made my eyes water, ere now. I desire you more acquaintance, good master Mustardseed. Where are these lads? Where are these hearts? Not a word of me. All that I will tell you, is, that the Duke hath dined. Get your apparel together, good strings to your beards, new ribbons to your pumps, meet presently at the palace, every man look over his partly. For, the short and the long is, our play is preferred. In any case let Thisbe have clean linen: and let not him, that plays the Lion, pare his nails: for they shall hang out for the Lyons claws. And most deer Actors, eat no Oh nions, nor garlic for we are to utter sweet breath: and I do not doubt but to hear them say, it is a sweet Comedy. No more words Away, go away. First good Peeter Quince, say what the Play treats on: then read the names of the Actors: & so grow to a point. Ready: Name what partly I am for, and proceed. What is Pyramus? A lover, or a tyrant? That will ask some tears in the true performing of it. If I do it, let the Audience look to their eyes: I will move storms: I will condole, in some measure. To the rest yet, my chief humour is for a tyrant. I could play Er cles rarely, or a partly to tear a Catin, to make all split the raging rocks: and shivering shocks, shall break the locks of prison gates, and Phibbus car shall shine from far, and make & mar the foolish Fates. This was lofty. Now, name the rest of the Players. This is Hercules vain, a tyrants vain: A lover is more condoling. And I may hide my face, let me play Thisbe to: I'll speak in a monstrous little voice; Thisbe, Thisbe, ah Py ramus, my lover deer, thy Thysby deer, & Lady deer. Let me play the Lion to. I will roar, that I will do any men heart good to heat me. I will roar, that I will make the Duke say; Let him roar again: let him roar again. Are we all met? Peeter Quince? Not a whit: I have a devise to make all well. Write me a Prologue, and let the Prologue seem to say; we will do no harm, with our swords, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed: and for the more better assurance, tell them, that I Pyramus am not Pyramus, but Bottom the weaver: this will put them out of fear. Why do they run away? This is a knavery of them to make me afeard. Enter Snout. Me thinks mistress, you should have little reason for that. And yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together, now a days. The more the pity, that some honest neighbours will not make them friends. Nay I can gleek, upon occasion. Not so neither: but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine owe turn. Master's, I am to discourse wonders: but ask me not what. For if I tell you, I am not true Athenian. I will tell you every thing right as it fell out. We will meet, & there we may rehearse most ob scenely, and courageously. Take pains, be perfect: adieu. A Calendar, a Calendar: look in the Almanac: find out Moonshine, find out Moonshine. Why then, may you leave a casement of the great chamber window (where we play) open; and the Moon may shine in at the casement. Where's Peas-blossom? Scratch my head, Peas-blossom. Where's Mon sieur Cobweb? Mounsieur Cobweb, good Mounsieur, get you your weapons in your hand, and kill me a read hipt Humble Be, on the top of a thistle: and good Mounsieur, bring me the honey bag. Do not fret your self too much, in the Actium, Mounsieur: and good Mounsieur have a care, the honybagge break not, I would be loath to have you over flown with a hombag signior. Where's Mounsieur Mus tardseede? Give me your neaf, Mounsieur Mustardseed Pray you, leave your curtsy, good Mounsieur. Nothing good Mounsieur, but to help Cavalero Cobweb, to scratch I must to the Barbers, Mounsieur. For me thinks I am marvels hairy about the face. And I am such a tender Ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch. I have a reasonable good ear in music. Lets have the tongue's, and the bones. Truly a peck of prouander. I could munch your good dry Oats. Me thinks, I have a great desire to a bot tle of hay. Good hay, sweet hay hath no fellow. I had rather have a handful, or two of dried peas But, I pray you let none of your people stir me: I have and exposition of sleep come upon me. When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer. My next is, most fair Pyramus. Heigh ho. Peeter Quince? Flute, the bellows mender? Snout the tinker? Starveling? Gods my life! Stolen hence, and left me a sleep? I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, passed the wit of man, to say; what dream it was. Man is but and Ass, if he go about expound this dream. Me thought I was, there is no man can tell what. Me thought I was, and me thought I had. But man is but patched a fool, If he will offer to say, what me thought I had. The eye of man hath not herd, the ear of man hath not seen, ns hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was, I will get Pe ter Quince to write a Ballet of this dream: it shall be called Bottoms Dream ; because it hath no bottom: and I will sing it in the latter end of a Play, before the Duke. Peradventure, to make it the more gracious, I shall sing it at her death. Thisbe the flowers of odious savours sweet. I see a voice: now will I to the chink, To spy and I can hear my Thisbyes face Thysby ? Not Shaefalus, to Procrus, was so true. Odours savours sweet. So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisbe deer. But hark, a voice: stay thou but here a while, And by and by I will to thee appear. Exit. If I were fair, Thysby, I were only thine. Oh grim looked night, oh night, with hue so black, Oh night, which ever art when day is not: Oh night, Oh night, alack, alack, alack, I fear my Thisbyes promise is forgotten. And thou o wall, o sweet, o lovely wall, That standest between her father's ground and mine, Thou wall, o wall, Oh sweet and lovely wall, Show me thy chink, to blink through, with mine eyes Thanks courteous wall. Jove shield thee well, for this. But what see I? No Thisbe do I see. Oh wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss, Cursed be thy stones, for thus deceiving me Think what thou wilt, I am thy lovers Grace: And, Like Limander, am I trusty still. No, in truth Sir, he should not. Deceiving me is Thisbyes cue: she is to enter now, and I am to spy Her through the wall. You shall see it will fallen Pat as I told you: yonder she comes. Enter Thisbe. Oh kiss me, through the hold of this vild wall. Wilt thou, at Ninnies tomb, meet me straight way? Sweet Moon, I thank thee, for thy sunny beams. I thank thee, Moon, for shining now so bright. For by thy gracious, golden, glittering beams, I trust to take of truest Thisbe sighed. But stay: o spite! but mark, poor knight, What dreadful dole is here? Eyes do you see! How can it be! Oh dainty duck, oh deer! Thy mantle good, what, stained with blood? Approach you Furies fell, Oh fates come, come, cut thread and thrum, Quail, crush, conclude, and quell. Oh, wherefore, Nature, didst thou Lyons frame? Since Lion vild hath here deflowered my deer. Which is, no, no: which was the fairest dame That lived, that loved, that liked, that look't with cheer. Come tears, confound, out sword, and wound The pap of Pyramus : I, that left pap, where heart does 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.