Original subtitles

Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour draws on apace.

Four happy days bring in another moon,

but, oh, methinks, how slow this old moon wanes!

She lingers my desires, like to a step-dame or a dowager,

long withering out a young man's revenue.

Four days will quickly steep themselves in night.

Four nights will quickly dream away the time.

And then the moon, like to a silver bow

new-bent in heaven, shall behold

the night of our solemnities.

Go, Philostrate.

Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments.

Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth.

Turn melancholy forth to funerals.

The pale companion is not for our pomp.

Hippolyta, I wooed thee with my sword,

and won thy love doing thee injuries,

but I will wed thee in another key,

with pomp, with triumph, and with reveling.

Happy be Theseus, our renowned duke!

Thanks, good Egeus, what's the news with thee?

Full of vexation come I, with complaint

against my child, my daughter Hermia.

My noble lord, this man, Demetrius,

hath my consent to marry her.

And, my gracious duke, this man, Lysander,

hath bewitched the bosom of my child.

Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes,

and interchanged love-tokens with my child.

Thou hast by moonlight at her window

sung with feigning voice verses of feigning love,

and stolen the impression of her fantasy.

With cunning hast thou filched my daughter's heart.

Turned her obedience, which is due to me,

to stubborn harshness.

And, my gracious duke, be it so

she will not here before your grace

consent to marry with Demetrius.

I beg the ancient privilege of Athens.

As she is mine, I may dispose of her,

which shall be either to this gentleman

or to her death, according to our law

immediately provided in that case.

What says thou, Hermia?

Be advised, fair maid.

To you, your father should be as a god.

One that composed your beauties, yea,

and one to whom you are but as a form in wax,

by him imprinted and within his power

to leave the figure or disfigure it.

Demetrius is a worthy gentleman.

So is Lysander.

In himself he is.

But in this kind, wanting your father's voice,

the other must be held to be the worthier.

I would my father look but with my eyes.

Rather your eyes must with his judgment look.

I do entreat your grace to pardon me.

I know not by what power I am made bold,

nor how it may concern my modesty

in such a presence here to plead my thoughts.

But I beseech your grace that I may know

the worst that may befall me in this case,

if I refuse to wed Demetrius.

Either to die the death or to abjure

forever the society of men.

Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires.

Know of your youth, examine well your blood.

Whether if you yield not to your father's choice,

you can endure the livery of a nun,

For aye, to be in shady cloister mewed,

to live a barren sister all your life,

chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon.

Thrice-blessed they that master so their blood,

to undergo such maiden pilgrimage.

But earthlier happy is the rose, distilled,

than that which withering on the virgin thorn,

grows, lives and dies in single blessedness.

So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord,

ere I will my virgin patent up

unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke

my soul consents not to give sovereignty.

Take time to pause, and by the next new moon,

the sealing-day betwixt my love and me,

for everlasting bond of fellowship,

upon that day, either prepare to die

for disobedience to your father's will,

or else to wed Demetrius, as he would,

or on Diana's altar to protest

for aye austerity and single life.

Relent, sweet Hermia.

And, Lysander, yield thy crazed title to my certain right.

You have her father's love, Demetrius.

Let me have Hermia's.

Do you marry him?

Scornful Lysander, true, he hath my love,

and what is mine my love shall render him.

And she is mine, and all my right of her,

I do estate unto Demetrius.

I am, my lord, as well derived as he, as well possessed.

My love is more than his, my fortunes every way

as fairly ranked, if not with vantage, as Demetrius.

And, which is more than all these boasts can be,

I am beloved of beauteous Hermia.

Why should not I then prosecute my right?

Demetrius, I'll avouch it to his head,

made love to Nedar's daughter, Helena, and won her soul.

And she, sweet lady, dotes.

Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry

upon this spotted and inconstant man.

I must confess that I have heard as much,

and with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof,

but being over-full of self-affairs,

my mind did lose it.

But, Demetrius, come, and come, Egeus.

You shall go with me.

I have some private schooling for you both.

For you, fair Hermia, look you arm yourself

to fit your fancies to your father's will.

Or else the law of Athens yields you up,

which by no means we may extenuate,

to death, or to a vow of single life.

How now, my love?

Why is your cheek so pale?

How chance the roses there do fade so fast?

Belike for want of rain, which I could well

beteem them from the tempest of my eyes.

Aye, me.

For aught that I could ever read,

could ever hear by tale or history,

the course of true love never did run smooth.

But either it was different in blood...

Oh cross, too high to be enthralled to low.

Or else misgraffed in respect of years...

Oh spite, too old to be engaged too young.

Or else it stood upon the choice of friends...

Oh hell, to choose love by another's eyes.

Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,

war, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,

making it momentary as a sound,

swift as a shadow, short as any dream,

brief as the lightning in the collied night.

And ere a man hath power to say "Behold."

The jaws of darkness do devour it up.

So quick bright things come to confusion.

If then true lovers have been ever crossed,

it stands as an edict in destiny.

Then let us teach our trial patience,

because it is a customary cross,

as due to love as thoughts and dreams and sighs,

wishes and tears, poor fancy's followers.

A good persuasion.

Therefore, hear me, Hermia.

I have a widow aunt, a dowager of great revenue,

and she hath no child.

From Athens is her house remote seven leagues,

and she respects me as her only son.

There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee,

and to that place the sharp Athenian law can not pursue us.

If thou lovest me then, steal forth

thy father's house tomorrow night,

and in the wood, a league without the town,

where I did meet thee once with Helena,

to do observance to a morn of May,

there will I stay for thee.

My good Lysander.

I swear to thee, by Cupid's strongest bow,

by his best arrow with the golden head,

by the simplicity of Venus' doves,

by that which knitteth souls and prospers loves,

and by that fire which burned the Carthage queen,

when the false Troyan under sail was seen,

by all the vows that ever men have broke,

in number more than ever women spoke,

at that same place thou hast appointed me,

tomorrow truly will I meet with thee.

God speed fair Helena!

Call you me fair?

That fair again unsay.

Demetrius loves your fair, oh happy fair.

Your eyes are lode-stars, and your tongue's sweet air

more tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear,

when wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.

Sickness is catching.

Oh, were favor so, yours would I catch,

fair Hermia, ere I go.

My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye,

my tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody.

Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated,

the rest I'd give to be to you translated.

Oh, teach me how you look, and with what art

you sway the motion of Demetrius' heart.

I frown upon him yet he loves me still.

Oh, that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill.

I give him curses, yet he gives me love.

Oh that my prayers could such affection move!

The more I hate, the more he follows me.

The more I love, the more he hateth me.

His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.

None, but your beauty.

Oh, would that fault were mine!

Take comfort, he no more shall see my face.

Lysander and myself will fly this place.

Before the time I did Lysander see,

seemed Athens as a paradise to me.

Oh, then, what graces in my love do dwell,

that he hath turned a heaven unto a hell.

Helen, to you our minds we will unfold.

Tomorrow night, when Phoebe doth behold

her silver visage in the watery glass,

decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass,

a time that lovers' flights doth still conceal,

through Athens' gates we have devised to steal.

And in that wood, where often you and I

on faint primrose beds were wont to lie,

emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet,

there my Lysander and myself shall meet,

and thence from Athens turn away our eyes,

to seek new friends and stranger companies.

Farewell, sweet playfellow, pray thou for us.

And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius.

How happy some more others some can be.

Through Athens I'm thought as fair as she.

But what of that?

Demetrius thinks not so.

He will not know what all but he do know.

And as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes,

so I, admiring of his qualities.

Things base and vile, holding no quantity,

love can transpose to form and dignity.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,

and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind,

nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste.

Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste,

and therefore is Love said to be a child,

because in choice he is so oft beguiled.

As waggish boys in game themselves forswear,

so the boy Love is perjured everywhere.

For ere Demetrius looked on Hermia's eyne,

he hailed down oaths that he was only mine,

and when this hail some heat from Hermia felt,

so he dissolved, and showers of oaths did melt.

I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight.

Then to the wood will he tomorrow night pursue her.

And for this intelligence, if I have thanks,

it is a dear expense.

But herein mean I to enrich my pain,

to have his sight thither and back again!

Is all our company here?

You were best to call them generally,

man by man, according to the scrip.

Here is the scroll, of every man's name,

which is thought fit, through all Athens,

to play in our interlude before the duke and the duchess,

on his wedding day, at night.

First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on,

then read the names of the actors,

and so grow to a point.

Marry, our play is, the most lamentable comedy,

and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby.

A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry.

Now, good Peter Quince, call forth

your actors by the scroll.

Masters, spread yourselves.

Answer as I call you.

Nick Bottom, the weaver.

Ready, name what part I am for, and proceed.

You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus.

What is Pyramus?

A lover, or a tyrant?

A lover, that kills himself most gallant for love.

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, my chief humor is for a tyrant.

I could play Ercles rarely, or a part

to tear a cat in, 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 and mar the foolish Fates.

This was lofty!

Now name the rest of the players.

This is Ercles' vein, a tyrant's vein,

- a lover is more condoling. - Francis Flute,

- the bellows-mender. - Here, Peter Quince.

Flute, you must take Thisby on you.

What is Thisby?

A wandering knight?

It is the lady that Pyramus must love.

Nay, faith, let not me play a woman.

I have a beard coming.

That's all one, you shall play it in a mask,

and you may speak as small as you will.

An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby too.

I'll speak in a monstrous little voice.

"Thisne, Thisne."

"Ah, Pyramus, my lover dear,

- "thy Thisby dear." - No, no, no, no, no, no.

- "And lady dear!" - You must play Pyramus,

and Flute, you Thisby.

Well, proceed.

Robin Starveling, the tailor.

Here, Peter Quince.

Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby's mother.

And Tom Snout, the tinker.

Here, Peter Quince.

You, Pyramus' father, and myself, Thisby's father.

Oh, and Snug, the joiner, you, the lion's part.

And, I hope, here is a play fitted.

Have you the lion's part written?

Pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of study.

You may do it extempore, for it's nothing but roaring.

Let me play the lion too.

I will roar, that I will do any man good to hear me.

I will roar, that I will make the duke say.

"Let him roar again, let him roar again."

An you should do it too terribly,

you would fright the duchess and the ladies,

that they would shriek!

And that were enough to hang us all.

That would hang us, every mother's son.

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 an 'twere any nightingale.

And you can play no part but Pyramus,

for Pyramus is a sweet-faced man,

a proper man, as one shall see in a summer's day,

a most lovely gentleman-like man,

therefore you must needs play Pyramus.

Well, I will undertake it.

Masters, here are your parts.

And I am to entreat you, request you and desire you,

to con them by tomorrow night,

and meet me in the palace wood,

a mile without the town, by moonlight.

There, there will we rehearse,

for if we meet in the city, we will be dogged

with company, and our devices known.

In the meantime I will draw a bill of properties,

such as our play wants.

I pray you, fail me not.

- I don't like... - We will meet,

and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously.

Take pains, be perfect.

Adieu.

Hold, or cut bow-strings.

How now, spirit!

Whither wander you?

Over hill, over dale, thorough bush, thorough brier.

Over park, over pale, thorough flood, thorough fire,

I do wander everywhere, swifter than the moon's sphere;

And I serve the fairy queen,

to dew her orbs upon the green.

The cowslips tall her pensioners be,

in their gold coats spots you see.

Those be rubies, fairy favors,

in those freckles live their savors.

I must go seek some dewdrops here,

and hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.

Farewell, thou lob of spirits, I'll be gone,

our queen and all our elves come here anon.

The king doth keep his revels here to-night.

Take heed the queen come not within his sight,

for Oberon is passing fell and wrath,

because that she as her attendant hath

a lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king,

she never had so sweet a changeling,

and jealous Oberon would have the child,

knight of his train, to trace the forests wild,

but she perforce withholds the loved boy,

crowns him with flowers and makes him all her joy.

Either I mistake your shape and making quite,

or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite

called Robin Goodfellow.

Thou speak'st aright,

I am that merry wanderer of the night.

I jest to Oberon and make him smile

when I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,

neighing in likeness of a filly foal,

and sometimes lurk I in a gossip's bowl,

in very likeness of a roasted crab,

and when she drinks, against her lips I bob,

and on her withered dewlap pour the ale.

The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,

Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me,

then slip I from her bum, down topples she.

But, room, fairy, here comes Oberon.

Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.

What, jealous Oberon.

Fairies, skip hence, I have forsworn his bed and company.

Tarry, rash wanton!

Am not I thy lord?

Then I must be thy lady.

But I know when thou hast stolen away from fairy land,

and in the shape of Corin sat all day,

playing on pipes of corn and versing love

to amorous Phillida.

Why art thou here, come from the farthest Steppe of India?

But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon,

your buskined mistress and your warrior love,

to Theseus must be wedded, and you come

to give their bed joy and prosperity.

How canst thou thus for shame, Titania,

glance at my credit with Hippolyta,

knowing I know thy love to Theseus?

Didst thou not lead him through the glimmering night

from Perigenia, whom he ravished?

And make him with fair AEgles break his faith,

with Ariadne and Antiopa?

These are the forgeries of jealousy.

And never, since the middle summer's spring,

met we on hill, in dale, forest or mead,

by paved fountain or by rushy brook,

or in the beached margent of the sea,

to dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,

but with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.

Therefore the wind, piping to us in vain,

as in revenge, have sucked up from the sea

contagious fogs, which falling in the land

have every pelting river made so proud

that they have overborne their continents.

The ox hath therefore stretched his yoke in vain,

the ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn

hath rotted ere his youth attained a beard.

The fold stands empty in the drowned field,

and crows are fatted with the murrion flock;

The nine men's morris is filled up with mud,

and the quaint mazes in the wanton green

for lack of tread are undistinguishable.

The human mortals want their winter cheer;

no night is now with hymn or carol blessed.

Therefore, the moon, the governess of floods,

pale in her anger, washes all the air,

that rheumatic diseases do abound:

and thorough this distemperature we see the seasons alter.

Hoary-headed frosts fall

in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,

and on old Hiems' thin and icy crown

an odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds

is, as in mockery, set, the spring, the summer,

the childing autumn, angry winter,

change their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,

by their increase, now knows not which is which!

And this same progeny of evils comes

from our debate, from our dissension.

We are their parents and original.

Do you amend it then?

It lies in you.

Why should Titania cross her Oberon?

I do but beg a little changeling boy, to be my henchman!

Set your heart at rest!

The fairy land buys not the child of me.

His mother was a votaress of my order.

And in the spiced Indian air, by night,

full often hath she gossiped by my side,

and sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands,

marking the embarked traders on the flood,

where we have laughed to see the sails conceive

and grow big-bellied with the wanton wind,

which she, with pretty and with swimming gait, following,

her womb then rich with my young squire,

would imitate, and sail upon the land,

to fetch me trifles, and return again,

as from a voyage, rich with merchandise.

But she, being mortal, of that boy did die.

And for her sake do I rear up her boy,

and for her sake I will not part with him.

Give me that boy.

Not for thy fairy kingdom.

Fairies, away.

We shall chide downright, if I longer stay.

Well, go thy way.

Thou shalt not from this grove

till I torment thee for this injury.

My gentle Puck,

come hither!

Thou rememberest, since once I sat upon a promontory,

and heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back,

uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,

that the rude sea grew civil at her song,

and certain stars shot madly from their spheres,

to hear the sea-maid's music.

I remember.

That very time I saw, but thou couldst not,

flying between the cold moon and the earth,

Cupid all armed.

A certain aim he took at a fair vestal throned by the west,

and loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow,

as it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts.

But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft

quenched in the chaste beams of the watery moon,

and the imperial votaress passed on,

in maiden meditation, fancy-free.

Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell.

It fell upon a little western flower,

before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,

and maidens call it love-in-idleness.

Fetch me that flower, the herb I showed thee once.

The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid

will make or man or woman madly dote

upon the next live creature that it sees.

Fetch me this herb; and be thou here again,

ere the leviathan can swim a league.

I'll put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes.

Having once this juice,

I'll watch Titania when she is asleep,

and drop the liquor of it in her eyes.

The next thing then she waking looks upon,

be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull,

on meddling monkey, or on busy ape,

she shall pursue it with the soul of love,

and ere I take this charm from off her sight,

as I can take it with another herb,

I'll make her render up her page to me.

Who comes here?

I am invisible, and I will overhear their conference.

Where is Lysander and fair Hermia?

Thou told'st me they were stolen unto this wood.

Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more.

Do I entice you?

Do I speak you fair?

Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth,

tell you, I do not, nor I cannot love you?

And even for that do I love you the more.

I am your spaniel, and Demetrius,

the more you beat me, I will fawn on you.

Use me but as your spaniel.

Spurn me, strike me, neglect me, lose me.

Only give me leave, unworthy as I am, to follow you.

What worser place can I beg in your love,

and yet a place of high respect with me,

than to be used as you use your dog?

Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit.

For I am sick when I do look on thee.

And I am sick when I look not on you.

You do impeach your modesty too much,

to leave the city and commit yourself

into the hands of one that loves you not,

to trust the opportunity of night

and the ill counsel of a desert place

with the rich worth of your virginity.

Your virtue is my privilege.

For that it is not night when I do see your face,

therefore I think I am not in the night,

nor doth this wood lack worlds of company,

for you in my respect are all the world.

Then how can it be said I am alone,

when all the world is here to look on me?

I will not stay thy questions.

Let me go.

Or, if thou follow me, do not believe,

but I shall do thee mischief in the wood.

Aye, in the temple, in the town, the field,

you do me mischief.

Fie, Demetrius!

Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex,

we cannot fight for love, as men may do.

We should be wooed and were not made to woo.

I'll run from thee and hide me in the brakes,

and leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts.

I'll follow thee and make a heaven of hell,

to die upon the hand

- I love so well. - Fare thee well, nymph,

ere he do leave this grove,

thou shalt fly him and he shall seek thy love.

Hast thou the flower there?

Welcome, wanderer.

Aye, there it is.

I pray thee, give it me.

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,

where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,

quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.

There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,

lulled in these flowers with dances and delight;

and there the snake throws her enameled skin,

wind wide enough to wrap a fairy in.

With the juice of this I'll streak her eyes,

and make her full of hateful fantasies.

Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove.

A sweet Athenian lady is in love with a disdainful youth.

Anoint his eyes, but do it when the next thing

he espies may be the lady.

Thou shalt know the man by the Athenian garments he hath on.

Effect it with some care, that he may prove

more fond on her than she upon her love.

Sing me now asleep.

Then to your offices, and let me rest.

♪ Philomel, with melody ♪

♪ Sing in our sweet lullaby ♪

♪ Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby ♪

♪ Never harm, nor spell nor charm, ♪

♪ Come our lovely lady nigh ♪

♪ So, good night, with lullaby ♪

♪ So, good night, with lullaby ♪

♪ So, good night, with lullaby ♪

♪ So, good night, with lullaby ♪

♪ Lullaby, lullaby ♪

♪ Weaving spiders, come not here ♪

♪ Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence ♪

♪ Beetles black, approach not near ♪

♪ Worm nor snail ♪

♪ Do no offense ♪

♪ Worm nor snail ♪

♪ Do no offense ♪

♪ Philomel, with melody ♪

♪ Sing in our sweet lullaby ♪

♪ Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby ♪

♪ Never harm, nor spell nor charm ♪

♪ Come our lovely lady nigh ♪

♪ So, good night, with lullaby ♪

♪ So, good night, with lullaby ♪

♪ So, good night, with lullaby ♪

♪ So, good night, with lullaby ♪

♪ Lullaby, lullaby ♪

Hence, away, now all is well.

One aloof stand sentinel.

What thou seest when thou dost wake,

do it for thy true-love take,

love and languish for his sake.

Be it ounce, or cat, or bear,

pard, or boar with bristled hair,

in thy eye that shall appear

when thou wakest, it is thy dear.

Wake when some vile thing is near.

Fair love, you faint with wandering in the wood,

and to speak troth, I have forgot our way.

We'll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good,

and tarry for the comfort of the day.

Be it so, Lysander, find you out a bed,

for I upon this bank will rest my head.

One turf shall serve as pillow for us both.

One heart, one bed, two bosoms and one troth.

Nay, good Lysander, for my sake, my dear, lie further off.

Do not lie so near.

Oh, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence!

Love takes the meaning in love's conference.

I mean, that my heart unto yours is knit

so that one heart we can make of it.

Two bosoms interchained with an oath.

So then two bosoms and a single troth.

And by your side no bedroom me deny,

for lying so, Hermia, I do not lie.

Oh, Lysander riddles very prettily.

Now much beshrew my manners and my pride,

if Hermia meant to say Lysander lied.

But gentle friend, for love and courtesy

lie further off, in human modesty,

such separation as may well be said

becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid.

So far be distant, and, good night, sweet friend.

Thy love ne'er alter till thy sweet life end.

Amen, amen, to that fair prayer, say I.

So end life when I end loyalty.

Here is my bed!

Sleep give thee all his rest.

With half that wish the wisher's eyes be pressed!

Through the forest have I gone.

But Athenian found I none,

on whose eyes I might approve

this flower's force in stirring love.

Night and silence, who is here?

Weeds of Athens he doth wear.

This is he, my master said,

despised the Athenian maid.

And here the maiden, sleeping sound,

on the dank and dirty ground.

Pretty soul, she durst not lie

near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy.

Churl, upon thy eyes I throw

all the power this charm doth owe.

When thou wakest, let love forbid.

Sleep his seat on thy eyelid.

So awake when I am gone, for I must now to Oberon.

Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius.

I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.

Oh, wilt thou darkling leave me, do not so.

Stay on thy peril.

I alone will go.

Oh, I am out of breath in this fond chase.

The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace.

Happy is Hermia, wheresoe'er she lieth.

For she hath blessed and attractive eyes.

How came her eyes so bright?

Not with salt tears.

If so, my eyes are oftener washed than hers.

No, no, I am as ugly as a bear.

For beasts that meet me run away for fear.

Therefore no marvel though Demetrius do,

as a monster fly my presence thus.

What wicked and dissembling glass of mine

made me compare with Hermia's sphery eyne?

But who is here?

Lysander on the ground!

Dead?

Or asleep?

I see no blood, no wound.

Lysander if you live, good sir, awake.

And run through fire will I for thy sweet sake.

Transparent Helena!

Nature shows art, that through thy bosom

makes me see thy heart.

Where is Demetrius?

Oh, how fit a word is that vile name to perish on my sword!

Do not say so, Lysander, say not so.

What though he love your Hermia?

Lord, what though?

Yet Hermia still loves you, then be content.

Content?

With Hermia?

Ha, no, I do repent the tedious minutes

I with her have spent.

Not Hermia but Helena I love.

Who will not change a raven for a dove?

The will of man is by his reason swayed,

and reason says you are the worthier maid.

Things growing are not ripe until their season

so I, being young, till now ripe not to reason,

and touching now the point of human skill,

reason becomes the marshal to my will

and leads me to your eyes,

where I o'erlook love's stories

written in love's richest book.

Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born?

When at your hand did I deserve this scorn?

Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man,

that I did never, no, nor never can,

deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye,

but you must flout my insufficiency?

Good troth, you do me wrong,

- No! - Good sooth, you do,

in such disdainful manner me to woo.

But fare you well, perforce I must confess,

I thought you lord of more true gentleness.

Oh, that a lady, of one man refused.

Should of another therefore be abused!

She sees not Hermia.

Hermia, sleep thou there.

And never mayst thou come Lysander near!

All my powers, address your love and might

to honor Helen, and to be her knight!

Ay me, for pity, what a dream was here!

Lysander, look how I do quake with fear.

Methought a serpent ate my heart away,

and you sat smiling at his cruel pray.

Lysander?

What, removed?

Lysander!

Lord!

What, out of hearing gone?

No sound?

No word?

Alack, where are you?

Speak, and if you hear.

Speak, of all loves, I swoon almost with fear.

No, then I well perceive you are not nigh.

Either death or you I'll find immediately.

Here's a marvelous convenient place for our rehearsal.

And we will do it in action

as we will do it before the duke.

Peter Quince!

What sayest thou, bully Bottom?

There are things in this comedy

of Pyramus and Thisby that will never please.

First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself,

which the ladies cannot abide.

How answer you that?

By'r lakin, a parlous fear.

I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done.

Not a whit, I have a device to make all well.

Write me a prologue, and let the prologue seem to say,

that 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.

Well, we will have such a prologue.

And it shall be written in eight and six.

No, let it two more.

Let it be written in eight and eight.

Will the ladies not be afeard of the lion?

I fear it, I promise you.

Masters, you ought to consider with yourself

to bring in, God shield us, a lion among ladies,

is a most dreadful thing,

for there is not a more fearful

wild-fowl than your lion living;

and we ought to look to it.

Therefore another prologue should tell it

that he's not a lion.

Nay, you must name his name,

and half his face must be seen through the lion's neck,

and he himself must speak through it,

saying thus, or to the same defect,

"Ladies," or "Fair ladies, I would wish you,"

or "I would request you," or "I would..."

Entreat you.

"I would entreat you, not to fear, not to tremble.

"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."

And there indeed let him name his name,

and tell them plainly he is

- Snug the joiner. - Snug the joiner.

Well, it shall be so.

But there is two hard things.

And that is, to bring the moonlight into a chamber.

For Pyramus and Thisby, you know, meet by moonlight.

Doth the moon shine that night we play our play?

A calendar, a calendar.

Look in the almanac, find out moonshine.

Yes, it doth shine that night.

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.

Aye, or else one must come in with a bush of thorns,

and a lantern, and say he comes to disfigure,

or to present, the person of moonshine.

And there's another thing.

We must have a wall in the great chamber.

For Pyramus and Thisby, says the story,

did talk through the chink of a wall.

You can never bring in a wall.

What say you, Bottom?

Some man or other must present wall.

Let him have some plaster, or some loam,

or some rough-cast about him, to signify wall.

Let him hold his fingers thus,

and through that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisby whisper.

If that may be, then all is well.

Come, sit down, every mother's son, and rehearse your parts.

Now Pyramus, you begin.

When you have spoken your speech, enter into that brake,

and so every one according to his cue.

What hempen home-spuns have we swaggering here,

so near the cradle of the fairy queen?

What, a play toward!

I'll be an auditor!

An actor too, perhaps, if I see cause.

Oh, speak, Pyramus.

Oh, Thisby, stand forth.

Thisby, the flowers of odious savors sweet...

Odious, odorous!

Odorous savors sweet.

So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby dear.

But hark, a voice!

Stay thou but here awhile,

and by and by I will to thee appear.

A stranger Pyramus than e'er played here.

Must I speak now?

Aye, marry, must you.

For you must understand he goes

but to see a noise that he heard,

and is to come again.

Oh, most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue,

of color like the red rose on triumphant briar,

most brisky juvenile and eke most lovely Jew,

as true as truest horse that yet would never tire,

I'll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomb.

Ninus' tomb, man.

Why, you mustn't speak that yet.

That you answer to Pyramus.

You speak all your part at once, cues and all.

Pyramus!

Enter, your cue is past, it is never tire.

Oh as true as truest horse,

that yet would never tire.

If I were fair, fair Thisby, I were only thine.

Monstrous.

Oh strange, we are haunted.

Pray, masters, fly, masters.

Help!

I'll follow you, I'll lead you about around,

through bog, through bush, through brake, through briar.

Sometimes a horse I'll be, sometimes a hound,

a hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire.

And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn,

like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn.

I see their knavery.

This is to make an 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 ousel cock so black of hue ♪

♪ With orange-tawny bill ♪

♪ The throstle with his note so true ♪

♪ The wren with little quill ♪

♪ The finch, the sparrow and the lark ♪

What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?

♪ The plain-song cuckoo gray, ♪

♪ Whose note full many a man doth 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 pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again.

Mine ear is much enamored of thy note.

So is mine eye, enthralled to thy shape.

And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me

on the first view to say, to swear,

I love thee.

Methinks, 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 neighbors

will not make them friends.

Nay, I can gleek upon occasion.

Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.

Not so, neither.

But if I had wit enough to get out of this wood,

I have enough to serve mine own turn.

Out of this wood do not desire to go!

Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no.

I am a spirit of no common rate.

The summer still doth tend upon my state,

and I do love thee.

Therefore, go with me.

I'll give thee fairies to attend on thee,

and they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep,

and sing while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep,

and I will purge thy mortal grossness so,

that thou shalt like an airy spirit go.

Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustardseed.

- Ready! - And I!

- And I! - And I!

Where shall we go?

Be kind and courteous to this gentleman.

Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes,

feed him with apricocks and dewberries,

purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries.

The honey-bags steal from the humble-bee,

and for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs,

and light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes,

to have my love to bed and to arise,

and pluck the wings from painted butterflies

to fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes.

Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.

- Hail. - Hail.

- Hail! - Hail.

I cry your worship's mercy, heartily.

I beseech your worship's name.

Cobweb!

I shall desire you of more acquaintance,

good master Cobweb.

If I cut my finger, I shall make bold with you.

Your name, honest gentleman?

Peaseblossom.

Good master Peaseblossom!

I shall desire your more acquaintance too.

Your name, I beseech you, sir?

Mustardseed.

Good master Mustardseed!

Your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now.

I desire your more acquaintance, good master Mustardseed.

Come, wait upon him.

Lead him to my bower.

The moon methinks looks with a watery eye,

and when she weeps, weeps every little flower,

lamenting some enforced chastity.

Tie up my lover's tongue!

Bring him silently.

How now, mad spirit?

What night-rule now about this haunted grove?

My mistress, with a monster, is in love.

This falls out better than I could devise.

Why rebuke you him that loves you so?

Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.

Now I but chide, but I should use thee worse,

for thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse.

If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep,

being o'er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep,

and kill me too!

The sun was not so true unto the day as he to me.

Would he have stolen away from sleeping Hermia?

I'll believe as soon this whole earth

may be bored and that the moon

may through the center creep and so displease

her brother's noontide with the Antipodes.

It cannot be but thou hast murdered him.

So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim.

So should the murdered look, and so should I,

pierced through the heart with your stern cruelty.

Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear,

as yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere.

What's this to my Lysander, where is he?

Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me?

I'd rather give his carcass to my hounds.

Out, dog, out, cur!

Thou drivest me past the bounds of maiden's patience!

Hast thou slain him, then?

Henceforth be never numbered among men!

Oh, once tell true, tell true, even for my sake!

Durst thou have looked upon him being awake,

and hast thou killed him sleeping?

Oh, brave touch!

Could not a worm, an adder, do so much?

An adder did it, for with doubler tongue than thine,

thou serpent, never adder stung.

You spend your passion on a misprised mood.

I am not guilty of Lysander's blood,

nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell.

I pray thee, tell me then that he is well.

I could, what should I get therefore?

A privilege never to see me more.

And from thy hated presence part I so.

See me no more, whether he be dead or no!

There is no following her in this fierce vein.

Here therefore for a while I will remain.

What hast thou done?

Thou hast mistaken quite, and laid the love juice

on some true love's sight!

Of thy misprision must perforce ensue,

some true love turned, and not a false turned true!

Then fate o'er-rules, that, one man holding troth,

a million fail, confounding oath on oath.

About the wood go swifter than the wind,

and Helena of Athens look thou find.

All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer,

with sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear.

By some illusion see thou bring her here.

I'll charm his eyes against she do appear.

I go, I go, look how I go,

swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow.

Flower of this purple dye,

hit with Cupid's archery,

sink in apple of his eye.

When his love he doth espy,

let her shine as gloriously

as the Venus of the sky.

When thou wakest, if she be by,

beg of her for remedy.

Captain of our fairy band,

Helena is here at hand,

and the youth, mistook by me,

pleading for a lover's fee.

Shall we their fond pageant see?

Lord, what fools these mortals be!

Draw aside, the noise they make

will cause Demetrius to awake.

Scorn and derision never come in tears.

Then will two at once woo one.

That must needs be sport alone,

And those things do best please me

That befall preposterously.

Why should you think that I should woo in scorn?

Scorn and derision never come in tears, look!

When I vow, I weep, and vows so born,

in their nativity all truth appears.

How can these things in me seem scorn to you,

bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?

You do advance your cunning more and more.

These vows are Hermia's, will you give her o'er?

I had no judgment when to her I swore.

Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o'er.

Demetrius loves her, and loves not you!

Oh, Helen, goddess,

nymph,

perfect,

divine!

To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?

Crystal is muddy, oh, how ripe in show thy lips,

those kissing cherries, tempting grow!

- Oh, spite! - Pure congealed white,

- high Taurus snow... - Oh, hell!

Fanned with the eastern wind, turns to a crow

- When thou hold'st up thy hand. - I see you all are bent

To set against me for your merriment.

You are unkind, Demetrius, be not so,

- for you love Hermia! - If you were civil

and knew courtesy, you would not do me thus much injury.

Can you not hate me, as I know you do,

but you must join in souls to mock me too?

You love Hermia, this you know I know.

- If you were men... - And here,

- with all my good will... - as men you are in show...

- With all my heart... - you would not use

- a gentle lady so. - In Hermia's love

- I yield you up my part. - To kiss this princess

- of pure white... - To vow, and swear...

- This seal of bliss. - And superpraise my parts,

when I am sure you hate me with your hearts.

You both are rivals, and love Hermia.

In Hermia's love I yield you up my part.

And yours of Helena to me bequeath.

And now both rivals, to mock Helena.

Whom I do love, and will do to my death.

A trim exploit, a manly enterprise,

To conjure tears up in a poor maid's eyes

- with your derision. - Keep thy Hermia,

I will none.

- If e'er I loved her... - None of noble sort...

- All that love is gone. - Would so offend a virgin,

and extort a poor soul's patience...

From the eye his function takes,

the ear more quick of apprehension makes.

To Helen, is it home returned,

There to remain.

Helen, it is not so!

Oh, never did mockers waste more idle breath.

Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found.

- Oh! - Mine ear, I thank it,

brought me to thy sound.

But why unkindly didst thou leave me so?

Why should he stay, whom love doth press to go?

Oh, what love could press Lysander from my side?

Lysander's love, that would not let him bide,

fair Helena, who more engilds the night

than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light.

Why seek'st thou me?

Could not this make thee know,

The hate I bear thee made me leave thee so?

Lo, she is one of this confederacy.

Now I perceive they have conjoined all three,

to fashion this false sport, in spite of me.

Injurious Hermia, most ungrateful maid.

Have you conspired?

Have you with these contrived

to bait me with this foul derision?

Disparage not the faith thou dost not know,

lest, to thy peril,

- thou aby it dear. - The sisters' vows,

the hours that we have spent,

when we have chid the hasty-footed time

for parting us, oh, is all forgot?

All school days' friendship, childhood innocence?

We, Hermia, have like two artificial gods,

have with our needles created both one flower,

both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,

both warbling of one song, both in one key,

as if our hands, our sides, voices,

and minds, had been incorporate.

So we grew together, like,

to a double cherry,

seeming parted, but yet an union in partition.

Two lovely berries molded on one stem.

So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart.

And will you rent our ancient love asunder,

to join with men in scorning your poor friend?

It is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly.

Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it,

though I alone do feel the injury.

I am amazed at your passionate words.

I scorn you not, it seems that you scorn me.

Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn,

to follow me and praise my eyes and face?

And made your other love, Demetrius,

who even but now did spurn me with his foot,

to call me goddess, nymph,

divine, and rare, precious?

Celestial?

Wherefore speaks he this to her he hates?

And wherefore doth Lysander deny your love,

so rich within his soul, and tender me, forsooth, affection,

but by your setting on, by your consent?

What though I be not so in grace as you,

so hung upon with love, so fortunate,

but miserable most, to love unloved?

This you should pity rather than despise.

I understand not what you mean by this?

Aye, do, persever, counterfeit sad looks,

make mouths upon me when I turn my back,

wink each at other, hold the sweet jest up.

This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled.

If you had any pity, grace, or manners,

you would not make me such an argument.

- But fare you well. - No, stay, gentle Helen.

- 'Tis partly my own fault. - Hear my excuse...

- Which death or absence... - My life, my love my soul...

- Soon shall remedy. - Fair Helena!

Oh, excellent!

Sweet, do not scorn her so.

If she cannot entreat, I can compel.

Thou canst compel no more than she entreat.

Thy threats have no more strength than her weak prayers.

Helen, I love thee, oh, by my life, I do,

I swear by that which I will lose for thee,

to prove him false that says I love thee not.

I say I love thee more than he can do.

If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too it.

- Come! - Lysander,

whereto tends all this?

Away, you Ethiope!

Hang off, thou cat...

- No, no, he'll seem to... - Thou burr!

- Break loose. - Vile thing, let on.

- Take on as you would... - Or I will shake thee

- from me like a serpent. - But yet, come not.

- Sweet love... - Thy love, ha!

Out, tawny Tartar, out!

Oh, loathed medicine, hated potion, hence!

Do not jest?

Yes, sooth, and so do you.

You are a tame man, go.

Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee.

I would I had your bond, for I perceive

a weak bond holds you, I'll not trust your word.

What, should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead?

No, although I hate her, I'll not harm her so.

What, can you do me greater harm than hate?

Hate me, wherefore?

Oh me, what news, my love!

Am not I Hermia?

Are not you Lysander?

I am as fair now as I was erewhile.

Since night you loved me, yet since night you left me.

Why, then you left me, oh, the gods forbid,

in earnest, shall I say?

Aye, by my life,

and never did desire to see thee more.

Therefore, be out of hope, of question, of doubt,

be certain, nothing truer, 'tis no jest,

that I do hate thee and love Helena.

Oh, me.

You juggler!

You canker-blossom!

You thief of love!

- What, have you come by night... - Have you no modesty,

- no maiden shame... - And stolen my love's heart

- from him? - No touch of bashfulness?

What, will you tear impatient answers from my gentle tongue?

Fie, fie, you counterfeit, you puppet, you!

Puppet?

Why so?

Aye, that way goes the game.

Now I perceive that she hath made

compare between our statures.

She hath urged her height!

And with her personage, her tall personage,

her height, forsooth, she hath prevailed with him.

I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen,

let her not hurt me.

And are you grown so high in his esteem

because I am so...

- Dwarfish. - And so low?

I was never cursed, I have no gift at all in shrewishness.

How low am I, thou painted maypole?

Speak, how low am I?

I am a right maid for my cowardice.

I am not yet so low but that

my nails can reach unto thine eyes.

Let her not strike me!

You perhaps may think, because she is

something lower than myself, that I can match her.

Lower, hark again!

Do not be so bitter with me.

I evermore did love you, Hermia,

did ever keep your counsels, never wronged you.

Save that, in love unto Demetrius,

I told him of your stealth unto this wood.

He followed you, for love I followed him,

but he hath chid me hence and threatened me,

to spurn me, strike me, no, to kill me too.

And now, so you will let me quiet go,

to Athens will I bear my folly back,

and follow you no further.

Let me go!

You see how simple and how fond I am.

Why, get you gone, who is't that hinders you?

A foolish heart, that I leave here behind.

What, with Lysander?

Oh, with Demetrius.

Oh, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd.

She was a vixen when she went to school,

and though she be but little, she is fierce.

Little again, nothing but low and little!

Why will you suffer her to flout me thus?

- Let me come to her. - Get you gone.

Get you gone, you dwarf.

You minimus of hindering

- knot-grass made. - You are too officious

in her behalf that scorns your services.

You bead!

You acorn!

Let her alone.

Take not her part, for if thou dost intend

ever so little show of love to her,

thou shalt aby it.

Now she holds me not.

Follow, if thou darest, to try whose right,

of thine or mine, is most in Helena.

Follow?

Nay, I'll go with thee, cheek by jowl.

Oh, you, mistress.

All this coil is long of you.

I will not trust you, I.

Nay, go not back.

Nor longer stay in your cursed company.

Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray.

My legs are longer though, to run away.

I am amazed, and know not what to say.

This is thy negligence!

Still thou mistakes,

or else committ'st thy knaveries willfully.

Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook.

Did not you tell me I should know the man

by the Athenian garments be had on?

And so far blameless proves my enterprise,

that I have anointed an Athenian's eyes.

And so far am I glad it so did sort,

as this their jangling I esteem a sport.

Thou see'st these lovers seek a place to fight.

Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night.

The starry welkin cover thou anon,

with drooping fog as black as Acheron,

and lead these testy rivals so astray,

as one come not within another's way.

Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue,

then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong,

and sometime rail thou like Demetrius,

and from each other look thou lead them thus,

till o'er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep,

with leaden legs and batty wings doth creep.

Then, crush this herb into Lysander's eye,

whose liquor hath this virtuous property,

to take from thence all error with his might,

and make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight.

When they next wake, all this derision

shall seem a dream, and fruitless vision,

and back to Athens shall the lovers wend,

with league whose date till death shall never end.

Whiles I in this affair do thee employ,

I'll to my queen and beg her Indian boy.

And then I will her charmed eye release,

from monster's view, and all things shall be peace!

My fairy lord, this must be done with haste,

for night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast,

and yonder shines Aurora's harbinger,

at whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and there,

troop home to churchyards, damned spirits,

that in crossways and floods have burial,

already to their wormy beds are gone.

For fear lest day should look their shames upon,

they willfully themselves exile from light,

and must for aye consort with black-browed night.

But we are spirits of another sort.

I with the morning's love have oft made sport,

and, like the forester, the groves may tread,

even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red,

opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams,

turns into yellow gold his salt green streams.

But, notwithstanding, haste, make no delay,

we may effect this business yet ere day.

Up and down, up and down,

I will lead them up and down.

I am feared in field and town.

Goblin, lead them up and down.

Here comes one.

Where art thou now, proud Demetrius?

Speak thou now!

Here, villain, drawn and ready.

Where art thou?

I'll be with thee straight!

Follow me, then, to plainer ground.

Lysander, speak again!

Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled?

Speak!

In some bush!

Where dost thou hide thy head?

Thou coward, art thou bragging to the stars,

telling the bushes that thou look'st for wars,

and will not come?

Come, recreant, come, thou child.

I'll whip thee with a rod!

He is defiled that draws a sword on thee.

Yea, art thou there?

Follow my voice, we'll try no manhood here.

He goes before me, and still dares me on.

When I come where he calls, then he is gone.

The villain is much lighter-heeled than I.

I followed fast, but faster he did fly.

That fallen am I in dark uneven way, and here will rest me.

Come, thou gentle day.

For if but once thou show me thy gray light,

I'll find Demetrius and revenge this spite.

Ho, ho, ho, coward, why comest thou not?

Abide me, if thou darest.

For well I wot thou runn'st before me,

shifting every place, and darest not stand,

nor look me in the face.

Where art thou now?

Come hither, I am here.

Nay, then, thou mock'st me.

Thou shalt buy this dear,

if ever I thy face by daylight see.

Now, go thy way.

Faintness constraineth me,

to measure out my length on this cold bed.

Oh, weary night, oh long and tedious night,

abate thy hours.

Shine comforts from the east,

that I may back to Athens by daylight.

From these that my poor company detest.

And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye,

steal me awhile from mine own company.

Yet but three, come one more.

Two of both kinds makes up four.

Here she comes, cursed and sad.

Cupid is a knavish lad, thus to make poor females mad.

Never so weary, never so in woe,

bedabbled with the dew and torn with briars.

I can no further crawl, no further go.

My legs can keep no pace with my desires.

Here will I rest me, till the break of day.

Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray!

♪ On the ground, sleep sound ♪

♪ I'll apply to your eye ♪

♪ Gentle lover, remedy ♪

♪ When thou wakes, thou takes ♪

♪ True delight in the sight ♪

♪ Of thy former lady's eye ♪

♪ And the country proverb known ♪

♪ That every man should take his own ♪

♪ In your waking shall be shown ♪

♪ Jack shall have Jill ♪

♪ Nought shall go ill ♪

♪ The man shall have his mare again ♪

♪ And all shall be well ♪

♪ Jack shall have Jill ♪

♪ Nought shall go ill ♪

♪ The man shall have his mare again ♪

♪ And all shall be well ♪

Where's Peaseblossom?

Ready!

Scratch my head, Peaseblossom.

Come, sit thee down, upon this flowery bed,

while I thy amiable cheeks do coy.

And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head,

and kiss thy fair large ears, oh, my gentle joy.

Where's Monsieur Cobweb?

Ready.

Oh, Monsieur Cobweb, good Monsieur,

get you your weapons in your hand,

and kill me a red-hipped humble-bee

on the top of a thistle.

And, good Monsieur, bring me the honey-bag.

Don't fret yourself too much in the action, Monsieur.

And good Monsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not.

I'll be loath to have you overflown

with a honey-bag, Senor.

Where's Monsieur Mustardseed?

Ready.

Give me your neaf, Monsieur Mustardseed.

I pray you, leave your courtesy, good Monsieur.

What's your will?

Nothing good, Monsieur, but to help

Cavaliere Cobweb to scratch!

Oh, I must to the barber's, Monsieur.

For methinks I am marvelous hairy about the face.

And I am such a tender ass.

If my hair do but tickle me, oh, oh, I must scratch.

What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet love?

I have a reasonable good ear in music.

Let's have the tongs and the bones.

Or say, sweet love, oh, what thou desirest to eat.

Truly, a peck of provender.

I could munch your good dry oats.

Methinks I have a great desire to a bottle of hay.

Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.

I have a venturous fairy that shall seek

the squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee new nuts.

I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas.

But let none of your people stir me.

I have an exposition of sleep come upon me.

Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms.

Fairies, away, and be always away.

So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle gently entwist.

The female ivy so enrings the barky fingers of the elm.

Oh, how I love thee!

Oh, how I dote on thee!

See'st thou this sweet sight?

Her dotage now I do begin to pity.

For meeting her of late behind the wood,

seeking sweet favors for this hateful fool,

I did upbraid her and fall out with her.

For she his hairy temples then had rounded

with coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers.

And that same dew, which sometime on the buds

was wont to swell like round and orient pearls,

stood now within the pretty flowerets' eyes

like tears that did their own disgrace bewail.

When I had at my pleasure taunted her,

and she in mild terms begged my patience,

I then did ask of her her changeling child,

which straight she gave me,

and her fairy sent to bear him to my bower in fairy land.

And now I have the boy, I will undo

this hateful imperfection of her eyes.

And, gentle Puck, take this transformed scalp

from off the head of this Athenian swain,

that he awaking when the other do,

may all to Athens back again repair,

and think no more of this night's accidents,

but as the fierce vexation of a dream.

But first, I will release the fairy queen.

Be as thou was wont to be.

See as thou was wont to see.

Dian's bud o'er Cupid's flower

hath such force and blessed power.

Now, my Titania,

wake you,

my sweet queen.

My Oberon.

What visions have I seen?

Methought I was

enamoured of an ass.

There lies your love.

How came these things to pass?

Oh, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now!

Silence awhile, Robin, take off this head.

Titania, music call.

Music, music, such as charmeth sleep.

Now when thou wakest, with thine own fool's eyes peep.

Sound, music.

Come, my queen, take hands with me,

and rock the ground whereon these sleepers be.

Now thou and I are new in amity,

and will tomorrow midnight solemnly

dance in Duke Theseus' house triumphantly,

and bless it to all fair prosperity.

There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be wedded,

with Theseus, all in jollity.

Fairy king, attend, and mark.

I do hear the morning lark.

Then, my queen, in silence sad,

trip we after night's shade.

We the globe can compass soon,

swifter than the wandering moon.

Come, my lord, and in our flight,

tell me how it came this night

that I sleeping here was found,

with these mortals on the ground.

I was with Hercules and Cadmus once,

when in a wood of Crete they bayed the bear,

with hounds of Sparta.

Never did I hear such gallant chiding.

For, besides the groves, the skies,

the fountains, every region near,

seemed all one mutual cry.

I never heard so musical a discord, such sweet thunder.

Good morrow, friends.

Saint Valentine is past.

Begin these wood-birds but to couple now?

But speak, Egeus, is this not the day

that Hermia should give answer of her choice?

It is, my lord.

I pray all, stand up.

I know you two are rival enemies.

How comes this gentle concord in the world,

That hatred is so far from jealousy,

To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity?

My lord, I shall reply amazedly, half sleep, half waking,

but as yet, I swear, I can not truly say how I came here.

But, as I think, for truly would I speak,

and now I do bethink me, so it is,

I came hither with Hermia.

Our intent was to be gone from Athens,

where we might, without the peril of the Athenian law...

Enough, enough, my lord, you have enough.

I beg the law, the law upon his head.

They would have stolen away.

They would, Demetrius, thereby to have defeated you and me.

You of your wife, and me of my consent,

of my consent that she should be your wife.

My lord, fair Helen told me of their stealth,

of this their purpose hither to this wood,

and I in fury hither followed them,

fair Helena in fancy following me.

But, my good lord, I wot not by what power,

but by some power it is, my love to Hermia,

melted as the snow, seems to me now,

as the remembrance of an idle gaud,

which in my childhood I did dote upon.

And all the faith, the virtue of my heart,

the object and the pleasure of mine eye, is only Helena.

To her, my lord, was I betrothed ere I saw Hermia,

but like a sickness, did I loathe this food.

But, as in health, come to my natural taste,

now I do wish it, love it, long for it,

and will for evermore be true to it.

Egeus, I will overbear your will.

For in the temple by and by with us,

these couples shall eternally be knit.

These things seem small and undistinguishable,

like far off mountains turned into clouds.

Methinks I see these things with parted eye,

when everything seems double.

So methinks, and I have found Demetrius like a jewel.

Mine own, and not mine own.

Are you sure that we're awake?

It seems to me that yet we sleep, we dream.

Do not you think the duke was here, and bid us follow him?

Yea, and my father.

And Hippolyta.

And he bid us follow to the temple.

Why then, we are awake.

Let's follow him, and by the way let us recount our dream.

When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer.

My next is, "Most fair Pyramus."

Heigh-ho, Peter Quince!

Flute, the bellows-mender!

Snout, the tinker!

Starveling!

God's me life, stolen hence, and left me asleep!

I have had a most rare vision.

I have had a dream, past the wit of man

to say what dream it was.

Man is but an ass, if he go about to expound this dream.

Methought I was, there is no man can tell what.

Methought I was, and methought I had,

but man is but a patched fool,

if he will offer to say what methought I had.

The eye of man hath not heard,

the ear of man hath not seen,

man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive,

nor his heart to report, what my dream was.

I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream.

It shall be called Bottom's 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.

'Tis strange my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.

More strange than true.

I never may believe these antique 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 airy 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 supposed a bear!

But all the story of the night told over,

and all their minds transfigured so together,

more witnesseth than fancy's images

and grows to something of great constancy,

but, howsoever strange, and admirable.

Have you sent to Bottom's house?

Is he come home yet?

He cannot be heard of.

Out of doubt he is transported.

If he come not, then the play is marred.

It goes not forward, doth it?

It is not possible.

You have not a man in all Athens

able to discharge Pyramus but he.

No, he hath simply the best wit

of any handicraft man in Athens.

- Yea. - Yea.

And the best person too.

And he is a very paramour for a sweet voice.

You must say paragon.

A paramour is, God bless us, a thing of naught.

Masters, the duke is coming from the temple,

and there is two or three lords and ladies more married.

If our sport had gone forward, we had all been made men.

Oh sweet bully Bottom!

Thus hath he lost sixpence a day during his life,

he could not have 'scaped sixpence a day,

and the duke had not give him

sixpence a day for playing Pyramus, I'll be hanged.

He would have deserved it.

Sixpence a day in Pyramus, or nothing.

Where are these lads?

Where are these hearts?

Bottom?

Bottom!

Oh most courageous day, oh most happy hour!

Masters, I am to discourse wonders.

But ask me not what, for if I tell you,

I am no true Athenian.

I will tell you everything, right as it fell out.

Oh, let us hear, sweet Bottom.

Not a word of me.

All I will tell you is, that the duke hath dined.

- Dined! - Get your apparel together,

good strings to your beards,

new ribbons to your pumps,

meet presently at the palace,

every man look o'er his part,

for the short and long is, our play is preferred!

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 hear them say, it is a sweet comedy.

- Right... - No more words!

Away, go, away!

Come now, what masques, what dances shall we have,

to wear away the 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 torturing hour?

Call Philostrate.

Here, mighty Theseus.

Say, what abridgment have you for this evening?

What masque, what music?

How shall we beguile the lazy time,

if not with some delight?

There is a brief how many sports are ripe.

Make choice of which your highness will see first.

"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 played

when I from Thebes came last a conqueror.

"The thrice three Muses, mourning for the death

of Learning, late deceased 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 Thisbe, 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?

A play there is, my lord, some ten words long,

which is as brief as I have known a play,

but by ten words, my lord, it is too long,

which makes it tedious.

For in all the play there is not one word apt,

one player fitted.

And tragical, my noble lord, it is,

for Pyramus therein doth kill himself,

which, when I saw rehearsed, I must confess,

made mine eyes water, but more merry tears

the passion of loud laughter never shed.

What are they that do play it?

Hard-handed men that work in Athens here,

which never laboured in their minds till now,

and now have toiled their unbreathed memories

with this same play, against your nuptial.

And we will hear it.

No, my noble lord it is not for you.

I have heard it over, and it is nothing,

nothing in the world,

unless you can find sport in their intents,

extremely stretched and conned with cruel pain,

to do you service.

I will hear that play.

For never anything can be amiss,

when simpleness and duty tender it.

Go, bring them in.

I love not to see wretchedness o'er charged,

and duty in his service perishing.

My gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing.

He says they can do nothing in this kind.

The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing.

Our sport shall be to take what they mistake,

and what poor duty cannot do,

noble respect takes it in might, not merit.

Where I have come, great clerks have purposed

to greet me with premeditated welcomes.

Where I have seen them shiver and look pale,

make periods in the midst of sentences,

throttle their practiced accent in their fears,

and in conclusion dumbly have broke off,

not paying me a welcome.

Trust me, sweet, out of this silence yet I picked a welcome.

And in the modesty of fearful duty,

I read as much as in the rattling tongue

of saucy and audacious eloquence.

Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity

in least speak most, to my capacity.

So please your grace, the prologue is addressed.

Let him approach.

If we offend, it is with our good will

that you should think, we come not to offend,

but with good will, to show our simple skill.

That is the true beginning of our end.

Consider then we come, but in despite.

We do not come as minding to content you.

Our true intent is all for your delight.

We are not here, that you should here repent you.

The actors are at hand, and by their show,

you shall know all that you are like to know.

Gentles, perchance you wonder at the show.

But wonder on, till truth make all things plain.

This man is Pyramus, if you would know.

This beauteous lady Thisby is certain.

This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present Wall,

that vile Wall which did these lovers sunder.

And through Wall's chink, poor souls,

they are content to whisper.

At the which, let no man wonder.

And this man, with lantern, dog, and bush of thorn,

presenteth Moonshine.

For, if you will know, by Moonshine

did these lovers think no scorn

to meet at Ninus' tomb, there, there to woo.

This grisly beast, which Lion, height by name,

the trusty Thisby, coming first by night,

did scare away, or rather did affright.

And as she fled, her mantle she did fall,

which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain.

Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall,

and finds his trusty Thisby's mantle slain.

Whereat, with blade, with bloody blameful blade,

he bravely broached his boiling bloody breast.

And Thisby, tarrying in mulberry shade,

his dagger drew, and died.

For all the rest, let Lion, Moonshine,

Wall, and lovers twain, at large discourse,

while here they do remain.

In this same interlude it doth befall

that I, one Snout by name, present a wall.

And such a wall as I will have you think,

that had in it a crannied hole or chink,

through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby,

did whisper often very secretly.

This loam, this rough-cast and this stone

doth show that I am that same wall, the truth is so.

And this the cranny is, right and sinister,

through which the fearful lovers are to whisper.

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 Thisby's promise is forgot.

And thou, oh wall, oh sweet, oh lovely wall,

that stands between her father's ground and mine.

Thou wall, oh wall, oh sweet and lovely wall,

show me thy chink, to blink through with mine eyne!

Thanks, courteous wall.

Jove shield thee well for this!

But what see I?

No Thisby do I see.

Oh wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss,

cursed be thy stones for thus deceiving me.

The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again.

No, in truth, sir, he should not.

"Deceiving me," is Thisby's cue.

She is to enter now, and I am to spy her through the wall.

You shall see, it will fall pat as I told you.

Oh wall, full often hast thou heard my moans,

for parting my fair Pyramus and me.

My cherry lips have often kissed thy stones,

thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee.

I see a voice.

Now will I to the chink, to spy.

And I can hear my Thisby's face, Thisby!

My love, thou art my love, I think.

Oh, think what thou wilt, I am thy lover's grace,

and, like Limander, am I trusty still.

And I like Helen, till the Fates me kill.

Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true.

As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you.

Oh, kiss me through the hole of this vile wall.

I kiss the wall's hole, not your lips at all.

Wilt thou at Ninny's tomb meet me straightway?

Tide life, 'tide death, I come without delay.

Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so.

And, being done, thus Wall away doth go.

This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard.

The best in this kind are but shadows,

and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them.

It must be your imagination then, and not theirs.

If we imagine no worse of them than they of themselves,

they may pass for excellent men.

You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear

the smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor,

may now perchance both quake and tremble here,

when lion rough in wildest rage doth roar.

Then know that I, a Snug the joiner,

am a lion fell, nor else no lion's dam.

For, if I should as lion come in strife

into your place, were pity on my life.

A very gentle beast, of a good conscience.

Let us listen to the moon.

♪ This lantern doth the horned moon ♪

♪ The horned moon present ♪

♪ Myself the man in the moon do seem to be. ♪

This is the greatest error of all the rest.

The man should be put into the lanthorn.

How is it else the man in the moon?

He dare not come there for the candle,

for, you see, it is already in snuff.

I am weary of this moon, would it would change.

It would appears by his small light of discretion,

that he is in the wane, but in courtesy,

in all reason, we must stay the time.

Proceed, moon.

All that I have to say, is to tell you

that the lantern is the moon, I the man in the moon,

this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush, and this dog, my dog.

This is old Ninny's tomb.

Where is my love?

Well roared, lion.

Well run, Thisby.

Well shone, moon.

Well moused, lion.

And then came Pyramus.

And so the lion vanished.

Sweet Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams.

I thank thee, Moon, for shining now so bright.

For, by thy gracious, golden, glittering gleams,

I trust to take of truest Thisby sight.

But stay, oh spite, but mark, poor knight,

what dreadful dole is here?

Eyes, do you see?

How can it be?

Oh dainty duck, oh dear.

Thy mantle good, what, stained with blood!

Approach, ye Furies fell.

Oh Fates, come, come, cut thread and thrum,

quail, crush, conclude, and quell!

My heart, but I pity the man.

Oh wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame?

Since lion vile hath here deflowered my dear,

which is no, no, which was, the fairest dame

that lived, that loved, that liked, that looked with cheer.

Come, tears, confound!

Out, sword, and wound!

The pap of Pyramus, aye, 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.

Die!

How chance Moonshine's gone before

Thisbe comes back and finds her lover?

She will find him by starlight.

Here she comes and her

- passion ends the play. - Asleep, my love?

What, dead, my dove?

Oh 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!

Oh, lovers, make moan!

His eyes were green as leeks.

Oh 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 Thisby ends.

Adieu,

adieu,

adieu.

Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead.

Aye, 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 our company?

No epilogue, I pray you, your play needs no excuse.

Never excuse, for all the players are dead,

there need none to be blamed.

But come, your Bergomask, let your epilogue alone.

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 overwatched.

This palpable-gross play hath well beguiled

the heavy gait of night.

Sweet friends, to bed.

Now the hungry lion roars, and the wolf behowls the moon,

whilst the heavy ploughman snores,

all with weary task fordone.

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 Hecate'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 that dust behind the door.

Through the house give glimmering light,

by the dead and drowsy fire,

every elf and fairy sprite

hop as light as bird from briar.

And this ditty, after me, sing, and dancing trippingly.

First rehearse your song by rote.

To each word a warbling note.

Hand in hand, with fairy grace,

will we sing, and bless this place.

Now, until the break of day,

through this house each fairy stray.

To the best bride-bed will we, which by us shall blessed be,

and the issue there create ever shall be fortunate.

So shall all the couples three ever true in loving be,

and the blots of Nature's hand,

shall not in their issue stand.

Never mole, harelip, nor scar,

nor mark prodigious, such as are despised in nativity,

shall upon their children be.

With this field-dew consecrate,

every fairy take his gait, and each several chamber bless,

through this palace, with sweet peace,

and the owner of it blessed, ever shall in safety rest.

Trip, away, make no stay, meet me all by break of day.

If we shadows have offended,

think but this, and all is mended.

That you have but slumbered here,

while these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

no more yielding but a dream.

Gentles, do not reprehend.

If you pardon, we will mend.

And as I am an honest Puck, if we have unearned luck,

now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,

we will make amends ere long;

else the Puck a liar call.

So, good night unto you all.

♪ Hand in hand, with fairy grace ♪

♪ Will we sing, bless this place ♪

♪ Bless this place ♪