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A Time that Lovers Flights doth still conceal,
Through Athens Gate have we devis'd to fteal.`
Her. And in the Wood, where often you and I
Upon faint Primrofe-beds were wont to lye,
Emptying our Bofoms of their Counsel fwell'd;
There my Lyfander and my self shall meet,
And thence from Athens turn away our Eyes,
To feek new Friends and ftrange Companions.
Farewel fweet Play-fellow, pray thou for us,
And good Luck grant thee thy Demetrius.
Keep Word, Lyfander, we muft ftarve our Sight
From Lovers Food, 'till Morrow deep Midnight.

[Exit Hermia.

Lyf. I will, my Hermia. Helena adieu,
As you on him, Demetrius doats on you. [Exit Lyfander.
Hel. How happy fome, o'er othersome can be!
Through Athens I am thought as fair as she.
But what of that; Demetrius thinks not fo:
He will not know, what all but he doth know.
And as he errs, doting on Hermia's Eyes,
So I, admiring of his Qualities:

Things bafe and vile, holding no quantity,
Love can tranfpofe to Form and Dignity;
Love looks not with the Eyes, but with the Mind,
And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind :
Nor hath Love's Mind of any Judgment tafte;
Wings and no Eyes, Figure unheedy haft.
And therefore is Love faid to be a Child,
Because in Choice he often is beguil'd.
As waggish Boys themselves in Game forfwear,
So the Boy Love is perjur'd every where.
For e'er Demetrius lookt on Hermia's Eyne,
He hail'd down Oaths that he was only mine.
And when this Hail fome Heat from Hermia felt,
So he diffolv'd, and Showers of Oaths did melt.
I will go tell him of fair Hermia's Flight:
Then to the Wood will he to Morrow Night
Purfue her; and for this Intelligence
If I have Thanks, it is a dear Expence.
But herein mean I to enrich my Pain,
To have his Sight thither, and back again.



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

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

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

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

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

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

Quin. Anfwer as I call you. Nick Bottom the Wea


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

Quin. A Lover that kills himself moft gallantly for Love.

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


Quin. Francis Flute the Bellows-mender.

Flu. Here Peter Quince.

Quin. You must take Thisby on you.

Flu. What is Thisby, a wandring Knight?

Quin. It is the Lady that Pyramus must love.

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



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

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

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

Bot. Well, proceed.

Quin. Robin Starveling the Taylor.

Star. Here Peter Quince.

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

Tom Snowt, the Tinker.

Snowt. Here Peter Quince.

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

Snug. Have

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quin. Why, what you will.

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

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

Bot. We will meet, and there we may rehearse more obscenely and courageously. Take pain, be perfect, adieu. Quin. At the Duke's Oak we meet.

Bot. Enough, hold or cut Bow-strings.



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

OW now Spirit, whither wander you?

Puck Ho Fai.

Fai. Over Hill, over Dale, through Bush, through Over Park, over Pale, through Flood, through Fire, (Briar, I do wander every where, fwifter than the Moon's Sphere; And I ferve the Fairy Queen, to dew her Orbs upon the The Cowflips tall her Penfioners be,

In their gold Coats Spots you fee,
Those be Rubies, Fairy favours,
In thofe Freckles live their Savours:
I must go feek fome Dew-Drops here,
And hang a Pearl in every Cowflip's Ear.
Farewel thou Lob of Spirits, I'll be gone,
Our Queen and all her Elves come here anon.



Puck. The King doth keep his Revels here to Night,


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

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

Puck. Thou fpeak'st aright;

I am that merry Wanderer of the Night:
I jeft to Oberon, and make him smile,
When I a fat and bean-fed Horfe beguile,
Neighing in likeness like a filly Foal:
And fometimes lurk I in a Goffip's Bowl,
In very likeness of a roafted Crab,
And when the drinks, again her Lips I bob,
And on her withered Dewlop pour the Ale.
The wifeft Aunt telling the faddeft Tale,
Sometime for three-foot Stool mistaketh me,
Then flip I from her Bum, down topples fhe,
And Tailor cries, and falls into a Cough,

And then the whole Quire hold their Hips, and loffe,
And waxen in their Mirth, and neeze and fwear,

A merrier Hour was never wafted there.

But room, Fairy, here comes Oberon.


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