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My good Lysander!
By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves;
Lys. Keep promise, love. Look, here
Her. God speed fair Helena! Whither away ? Hei. Call you me fair? that fair again unsay. Demetrius loves your fair. O happy fair! Your eyes are lode-stars; 1 and your tongue's sweet
More tunable than lark to shepherd's ear,
My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye,
1 Pole-stars. 2 Feature, countenance. 3 Excepted.
O, teach me how you look; and with what art
Her. I frown upon him, yet he loves me still. Hel. O, that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill!
Her. I give him curses, yet he gives me love. Hel. O, that my prayers could such affection move!
Her. The more I hate, the more he follows me. Hel. The more I love, the more he hateth me. Her. His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.
Hel. None, but your beauty. Would that fault were mine!
Her. Take comfort; he no more shall see my face;
Lysander and myself will fly this place.-
Lys. Helen, to you our minds we will unfold:
Her. And in the wood, where often you and I
l'o seek new friends and stranger companies.
Lys. I will, my Hermia.-Helena, adieu :
Things base and vile, holding no quantity,
I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight:
The same. A room in a cottage.
Enter SNUG, BOTTOM, FLUTE, SNOUT, QUINCE, and
Quince. Is all our company here?
Bot. You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip.
Quince. 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 duchess, on his wedding-day at night.
Bot. First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on; then read the names of the actors; and so grow to a point.
Quince. Marry, our play is-The most lamentable comedy, and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby.
Bot. A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry.-Now, good Peter Quince, call forth
It will cost him much, be a severe constraint on his feelings.
your actors by the scroll. Masters, spread yourselves.
Quince. Answer, as I call you. Nick Bottom, the
Bot. Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed.
Quince. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Py
Bot. What is Pyramus? a lover, or a tyrant? Quince. A lover, that kills himself most gallantly for love.
Bot. 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 To the rest. Yet 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,
With shivering shocks,
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.
Quince. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender.
Flute. Here, Peter Quince.
Quince. You must take Thisby on you.