Quin. Let us hear, sweet Bottom.
Bot. Not a word of me. All that I will tell you is, that the Duke hath din’d. Get your apparel together, good strings to your beards, new ribands to your pumps; meet presently at the palace; every man look o’er his part; for the short and the long is, our play is preferr’d. In any case, let Thisby have clean linen; and let not him that plays the lion pare his nails, for they shall hang out for the lion’s claws. And, most dear actors, eat no onions 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!
[Exeunt.]
¶
ACT V
[Scene I]
Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, and Philostrate, [Lords, and Attendants].
Hip.
’Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.
The.
More strange than true. I never may believe
These antic fables, nor these fairy toys.
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all compact.
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold;
That is the madman. The lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt.
The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to aery nothing
A local habitation and a name.
Such tricks hath strong imagination,
That if it would but apprehend some joy,
It comprehends some bringer of that joy;
Or in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush suppos’d a bear!
Hip.
But all the story of the night told over,
And all their minds transfigur’d so together,
More witnesseth than fancy’s images,
And grows to something of great constancy;
But howsoever, strange and admirable.
Enter lovers, Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, and Helena.
The.
Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.
Joy, gentle friends, joy and fresh days of love
Accompany your hearts!
Lys.
More than to us
Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed!
The.
Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have,
To wear away this long age of three hours
Between [our] after-supper and bed-time?
Where is our usual manager of mirth?
What revels are in hand? Is there no play
To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?
Call Philostrate.
Phil.
Here, mighty Theseus.
The.
Say, what abridgment have you for this evening?
What masque? what music? How shall we beguile
The lazy time, if not with some delight?
Phil.
There is a brief how many sports are ripe.
Make choice of which your Highness will see first.
[Giving a paper.]
The. [Reads.]
“The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung
By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.”
We’ll none of that: that have I told my love,
In glory of my kinsman Hercules.
“The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals,
Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.”
That is an old device; and it was play’d
When I from Thebes came last a conqueror.
“The thrice three Muses mourning for the death
Of Learning, late deceas’d in beggary.”
That is some satire, keen and critical,
Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony.
“A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus
And his love Thisby; very tragical mirth.”
Merry and tragical? Tedious and brief?
That is hot ice and wondrous strange snow.
How shall we find the concord of this discord?
Phil.
A play there is, my lord, some ten words long,
Which
