Shakespeare's First Folio Part 146

Enter Lyon and Moone-shine

Lyon. You Ladies, you (whose gentle harts do feare The smallest monstrous mouse that creepes on floore) May now perchance, both quake and tremble heere, When Lion rough in wildest rage doth roare.

Then know that I, one Snug the Ioyner am A Lion fell, nor else no Lions dam: For if I should as Lion come in strife Into this place, 'twere pittie of my life

Du. A verie gentle beast, and of good conscience

Dem. The verie best at a beast, my Lord, y ere I saw

Lis. This Lion is a verie Fox for his valor

Du. True, and a Goose for his discretion

Dem. Not so my Lord: for his valor cannot carrie his discretion, and the fox carries the Goose

Du. His discretion I am sure cannot carrie his valor: for the Goose carries not the Fox. It is well; leaue it to his discretion, and let vs hearken to the Moone

Moone. This Lanthorne doth the horned Moone present

De. He should haue worne the hornes on his head

Du. Hee is no crescent, and his hornes are inuisible, within the circ.u.mference

Moon. This lanthorne doth the horned Moone present: My selfe, the man i'th Moone doth seeme to be

Du. This is the greatest error of all the rest; the man Should be put into the Lanthorne. How is it els the man i'th Moone?

Dem. He dares not come there for the candle.

For you see, it is already in snuffe

Dut. I am wearie of this Moone; would he would change

Du. It appeares by his smal light of discretion, that he is in the wane: but yet in courtesie, in all reason, we must stay the time

Lys. Proceed Moone

Moon. All that I haue to say, is to tell you, that the Lanthorne is the Moone; I, the man in the Moone; this thorne bush; my thorne bush; and this dog, my dog

Dem. Why all these should be in the Lanthorne: for they are in the Moone. But silence, heere comes Thisby.

Enter Thisby.

This. This is old Ninnies tombe: where is my loue?

Lyon. Oh.

The Lion roares, Thisby runs off.

Dem. Well roar'd Lion

Du. Well run Thisby

Dut. Well shone Moone.

Truly the Moone shines with a good grace

Du. Wel mouz'd Lion

Dem. And then came Piramus

Lys. And so the Lion vanisht.

Enter Piramus.

Pyr. Sweet Moone, I thank thee for thy sunny beames, I thanke thee Moone, for shining now so bright: For by thy gracious, golden, glittering beames, I trust to taste of truest Thisbies sight.

But stay: O spight! but marke, poore Knight, What dreadful dole is heere?

Eyes do you see! How can it be!

O dainty Ducke: O Deere!

Thy mantle good; what staind with blood!

Approch you furies fell: O Fates! come, come: Cut thred and thrum, Quaile, crush, conclude, and quell

Du. This pa.s.sion, and the death of a deare friend, Would go neere to make a man looke sad

Dut. Beshrew my heart, but I pittie the man

Pir. O wherefore Nature, did'st thou Lions frame?

Since lion vilde hath heere deflour'd my deere: Which is: no, no, which was the fairest Dame That liu'd, that lou'd, that like'd, that look'd with cheere.

Come teares, confound: Out sword, and wound The pap of Piramus: I, that left pap, where heart doth hop; Thus dye I, thus, thus, thus.

Now am I dead, now am I fled, my soule is in the sky, Tongue lose thy light, Moone take thy flight, Now dye, dye, dye, dye, dye

Dem. No Die, but an ace for him; for he is but one

Lis. Lesse then an ace man. For he is dead, he is nothing

Du. With the helpe of a Surgeon, he might yet recouer, and proue an a.s.se

Dut. How chance Moone-shine is gone before?

Thisby comes backe, and findes her Louer.

Enter Thisby.

Duke. She wil finde him by starre-light.

Heere she comes, and her pa.s.sion ends the play

Dut. Me thinkes shee should not vse a long one for such a Piramus: I hope she will be breefe

Dem. A Moth wil turne the ballance, which Piramus which Thisby is the better

Lys. She hath spyed him already, with those sweete eyes

Dem. And thus she meanes, videlicit

This. Asleepe my Loue? What, dead my Doue?

O Piramus arise: Speake, speake. Quite dumbe? Dead, dead? A tombe Must couer thy sweet eyes.

These Lilly Lips, this cherry nose, These yellow Cowslip cheekes Are gone, are gone: Louers make mone: His eyes were greene as Leekes.

O Sisters three, come, come to mee, With hands as pale as Milke, Lay them in gore, since you haue sh.o.r.e with sheeres, his thred of silke.