style="font-size:15px;"> The pap of Pyramus;
Ay, that left pap,
Where heart doth hop.
[Stabs himself.]
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,
[Exit Moonshine.]
Now die, die, die, die, die.
[Dies.]
Dem. No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one.
Lys. Less than an ace, man; for he is dead, he is nothing.
The. With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover, and yet prove an ass.
Hip. How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisby comes back and finds her lover?
[Enter Thisby.]
The. She will find him by starlight. Here she comes, and her passion ends the play.
Hip. Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus. I hope she will be brief.
Dem. A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisby, is the better: he for a man. God warr’nt us; she for a woman. God bless us.
Lys. She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes.
Dem. And thus she means, videlicet—
This.
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!
[Stabs herself.]
And farewell, friends;
Thus Thisby ends;
Adieu, adieu, adieu.
[Dies]
The. Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead.
Dem. Ay, and Wall too.
[Bot.] [Starting up.] 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?
The. 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 blam’d. Marry, if he that writ it had play’d Pyramus, and hang’d himself in Thisby’s garter, it would have been a fine tragedy; and so it is, truly, and very notably discharg’d. But come, your Bergomask; let your epilogue alone.
[A dance.]
The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve.
Lovers, to bed, ’tis almost fairy time.
I fear we shall outsleep 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.
Exeunt.
Enter Puck.
Puck.
Now the hungry [lion] roars,
And the wolf [behowls] the moon;
Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with weary task foredone.
Now the wasted brands do glow,
Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud,
Puts the wretch that lies in woe
In remembrance of a shroud.
Now it is the time of night
That the graves, all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the church-way paths to glide.
And we fairies, that do run
By the triple Hecat’s team
From the presence of the sun,
Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolic. Not a mouse
Shall disturb this hallowed house.
I am sent with broom before,
To sweep the dust behind the door.
Enter King and Queen of Fairies [Oberon and Titania] with all their Train.
