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 TITANIA AND THE CHANGELING 
 
 s 
 
 HE never had so sweet a Chmigeling. 
 
 Act II, Scene i 
 
Copyright, 1907 
 By The University Press 
 
 
 LISRftRY of CONCF!i?si] 
 
 Two CoDles Receivsd 
 
 AUG 25 I90r 
 
 Coovneht Entry 
 
 I Auq ^(oft^CJ 
 
 \ CLASS A XXc, Nb. 
 
 S feakegpeariarwt" 
 
 T/iis edition published in September, 1907 
 
 Arranged and Printed hy 
 The University Press, Cambridge, U. S. A. 
 

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 rAlFlY 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE S DAY 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 I 
 
 T was nearly noon of a clear day in December, 1594, 
 that a mud-bespattered carrier's cart turned heavily from 
 the centre of the main thoroughfare of St. Bridget's 
 parish, London, and came to a stop in front of a small 
 shop before which a haberdasher's sign swung to and 
 fro in the wind. 
 
 The cart had evidently come a long distance, for it 
 was covered with mud, the horses were tired, and the face 
 of the burly driver was beef red with buffeting against 
 the wind, while the cheeks of the fifteen-year-old boy 
 who sat beside him glowed with such roses as are to be 
 found only in the faces of the lads and lassies of Merry 
 England out of all the world. As the cart halted, the 
 carrier climbed stiffly down from his seat, covered the 
 steaming horses with pieces of rough cloth, and taking- 
 some grain from the back of the cart prepared to give 
 them their noon meal. 
 
 Meanwhile the boy sat still, quite unconscious of the 
 movements of the carrier, gazing with wide eyes and 
 parted lips at the people passing in the streets, at the 
 rows of curious little shops, or at old St. Paul's in the 
 distance, with the wonder of one to whom aU these sights 
 
 [ xvii ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 were qmte evidently new. He was a handsome boy, 
 though small for his years, and the carrier's eyes were 
 both affectionate and amused as he watched his absorbed 
 face. At last, when the horses' bridles had been removed 
 for their greater comfort, and nothing more remained 
 to be done for them, the man bawled good naturedly, 
 " Wake up, Edmund! What ails thee, lad? Hast come 
 all the way to London Town only to sit still in old 
 Greenway's cart? Thou couldst do as much as that and 
 never leave Stratford at all! " 
 
 The boy came back from his wonder-gazing with a 
 start, and sprang from the driver's seat to the ground, 
 crying, " Why, Master Greenway, are we really there at 
 last? " 
 
 " Axe we really there," mimicked the carrier, testily. 
 "Where is 'there'? If you mean are we in front of 
 Master Gilbert Shakespeare's haberdashery shop in St. 
 Bridget's, London, that 's where we are at this present 
 moment, and there are Bow bells ringing for noon, and 
 my stomach tells me they speak truly! Art thou not 
 hungry, lad? " 
 
 " Hungry," said Edmund feelingly, " I could eat 
 my leathern jerkin; but before I eat that or anything 
 else I must find Gilbert ; " and he made a dash for the 
 shop door, followed at a more sober gait by the carrier. 
 Master Gilbert Shakespeare, the haberdasher, a rather 
 heavily built young man, of about twenty-eight years, 
 was engaged in displaying a pair of saffron hose to a cus- 
 tomer as Edmund burst into the room. As his back was 
 toward the door he did not see him enter, but hearing the 
 noise judged that it was a boy that had caused it, and 
 ventured a random correction of his manners without 
 looking around: " Gently, gently, lad, and close the 
 door, whoever thou art! Tho' 't is like to be a green 
 Christmas, the air is keen, — thou 'It freeze us all! " 
 
 " Art grown so tender, then, with living in the city? " 
 [ xviii ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 said Edmund, saucily, springing suddenly in front of 
 Gilbert, and snatching his hands, sUken hose and all, in 
 both his own. 
 
 " Thou art enough to give one heart disease! " gasped 
 Gilbert, sinking heavily into an oaken chair. " Edmund 
 Shakespeare, by all the Saints! What brings thee to 
 London, little brother? Surely thou hast not run away 
 from home? 'T would break our mother's heart! " 
 
 " Nay, Gilbert," laughed Edmund, giving him a 
 bear's hug. " Ask Master Greenway! He has come to 
 London to buy silk and spices and other good stores for 
 Master Richard Quiney's shop in Stratford, and he said 
 I might come with him in his carrier's cart for company 
 if I would, since so few people travel at this time of year 
 he could afford me room; and mother gave her consent 
 that I should visit thee and Will, and spend my Christ- 
 mas in London." 
 
 " That 's the truth, as I 'm an Englishman," said old 
 Greenway, coming forward from his station near the 
 door to greet Gilbert. " Thy mother not only gave her 
 consent, but put up an excellent lunch for us into the 
 bargain. However, that and all else we could find at the 
 inns along the way was little enough for people who have 
 been jolted over such roads as we have travelled for three 
 days! Why, man! a good dinner in our stomachs was 
 no more than a dried pea ratthng in a skillet ! Take us 
 soon to some nearby tavern lest we eat thy goods off the 
 shelves, or perchance thee and thy customers." 
 
 Gilbert slapped the old carrier on the shoulder and 
 said heartily, " Thou shalt have the best dinner to be 
 bought for money, and my thanks into the bargain for 
 bringing the lad. We will show him the sights of Lon- 
 don, and he shall see Will play as much as ever he 
 likes, and so shalt thou, if thou canst spare time for such 
 foolery." 
 
 s " Nay, Gilbert," said the carrier, " I must stop in 
 
 [xix] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 London but long enough to purchase my stores and rest 
 my horses, and then away for Stratford ! Edmund is to 
 return with me on my next trip — that is, if I do not 
 meanwliile die of starvation," he ended, with a plaintive 
 hand spread over a plump waistcoat. 
 
 " Be patient but a moment," said Gilbert, " and thou 
 shalt be fed, upon mine honour. Let me but sell the 
 saffron hose and I am with thee." 
 
 The carrier roUed, an expressive eye at Edmund, as the 
 haberdasher returned to his customer with profuse apol- 
 ogies for neglecting him. " Your pardon, honourable 
 sir, for this delay," said he. " My young brother gave 
 me such a turn that I for the moment forgot my privi- 
 lege of showing you these fine hose. All, sir, these are 
 the hose to set off a well-turned leg like thine ; but I have 
 other colors also, if thou wilt see them? " 
 
 " Nay," said the cavaher, good humouredly, " no need 
 for either apology or flattery. I have been well enter- 
 tained the while. I '11 take only the saffron hose to-day, 
 — but tell me, art thou truly related to Will Shakes- 
 peare, whose plays delight the Queen herself? " 
 
 " He is indeed my brother," said Gilbert, proudly, 
 " and all his honours he digests as easily as " — "as I 
 could digest a dinner, an' I had one," groaned old Green- 
 way in an audible aside to Edmund. " Come, lad, let us 
 find a dinner for ourselves, and Gilbert shall join us 
 when he has finished with the saffron hose. What are 
 such fripperies to men in our condition? I tell thee 
 plainly, unless I eat soon I am not long for this world." 
 
 " Thou shalt not perish on my account," laughed the 
 cavalier, turning toward old Greenway and taking a 
 gold piece from his purse. " Here, Gilbert, is the money 
 for the saffron hose. Take it, and buy them the best 
 dish of toasted cheese to be had in London and plenty of 
 good English ale to wash all down, and know that when 
 I need other hose for my well-turned legs I shall get 
 
 [XX] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 them of Will Shakespeare's brother, for Will hath 
 surely the sweetest wit in all England." 
 
 " Thou hast indeed saved us from being cut off in our 
 youth," said old Green way, thankfully, bobbing Ed- 
 mund's head forward by means of a discreet push from 
 behind, and bowing himself as low as his girth permitted 
 as Gilbert opened the door for the cavalier to pass out. 
 The little shop door was then closed, and the three sallied 
 forth in search of a tavern, Edmund singing gaily 
 " Three merry men, and three merry men, and three 
 merry men be we " all the way down the street, and even 
 until they were comfortably seated at a table near a 
 roasting fire, waiting for their cheese and ale. 
 
 What valiant trenchermen they proved themselves on 
 this occasion I shall not venture to tell, for Gilbert plied 
 them with food until even the carrier declared himself 
 satisfied, and Edmund said he could walk over all Lon- 
 don on the strength of his dinner. Then they returned 
 to the cart, and Gilbert and Edmund watched the carrier 
 drive away alone in the direction of old St. Paul's. 
 
 " Now," said Gilbert to Edmund, " thou must be thine 
 own guide for a time, for I must stay by my shop. Mind 
 thy direction, and do not go too far away, and at four 
 o'clock we will set forth for Southwark to find Will." 
 
 In the next two hours Edmund saw more sights than 
 he had seen in all his fifteen years of life before. There 
 were gay equipages driving by in the streets, while bril- 
 liantly dressed cavaliers pranced back and forth on 
 horseback. The broad river was alive with craft of all 
 kinds, and the shops displayed such a wonderful variety 
 of strange things that the country boy found endless 
 delight in gazing. When Bow bells chimed the hour of 
 four, however, he was once more at Gilbert's door, and 
 found his brother ready for their walk to Southwark, 
 which lay on the opposite bank of the Thames. 
 
 " We '11 cross by way of London bridge," said Gilbert, 
 [xxi] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 " for it is one of the sights of the city, and cheaper than 
 the ferry. We shall be in good season if we reach South- 
 wark by five, for the play will not be over until about 
 that time, and we can sup with Will and perhaps see 
 some of his fine friends at the Tabard Inn. I tell thee, 
 Edmund, thou must mind thy manners, for the greatest 
 wits in the kingdom seek his company, and 't is said he 
 hath friends even among the peers of the realm ! What 
 dost thou say to that? " 
 
 " Marry, that he is our Will for all that," said Ed- 
 mund, stoutly. " Would n't mother and Anne be proud 
 to see him among his fine friends? And as for Suzanne 
 and Judith, they are always telling me that I am naught 
 but his brother, while they are his very own daughters, 
 and so nearer of kin ! All Stratford hath great pride in 
 him, but these girls take on such peacock airs that I am 
 forced sometimes to put them down for their soul's good ! 
 It seems a pity that since fortune made me their uncle 
 it could not at the same time have made me of greater 
 age, for they pay but small heed to my counsel." 
 
 " Thou art a rare spiritual guide, I '11 warrant," 
 laughed Gilbert. " To have Will for a father and thee 
 for an uncle is enough to turn the head of any girl, — 
 but 't is time now to forget thy virtues and look about 
 thee. This is London bridge. Didst ever play with the 
 girls at home ' London bridge is falling down, dance o'er 
 my Lady Lee ' ? The Lee joins the Thames beyond here 
 and that gave rise to the song." 
 
 " As if I would play girls' games! " sniffed Edmund. 
 
 " They '11 make thee play their games in time, lad, 
 be sure," said Gilbert, darkly, " so be less cocky. 'T will 
 become thee better. Dost know, Edmund, some of the 
 people who live in the houses that are built along both 
 sides of it have never been off this bridge in all their 
 lives? They stay right here in this dark, narrow street 
 and watch the world pass by. They are many of them 
 
 [ xxii ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 cut-throats and thieves, what 's more, so 't is as well to 
 cross by daylight and in good company." 
 
 " Did they never see a budding orchard in the spring, 
 nor hear a skylark sing on a summer morning? " said 
 Edmund, as if these sights were more to him than any 
 London had to offer. 
 
 " Not they," said Gilbert, " but they love this life as 
 Will loves the country. If they go away from it they 
 miss the smell of the river and the noise of traffic, and 
 the busy throngs, and are homesick to get back again, 
 just as he longs for Stratford meadows." 
 
 " There may be birds that love their cage," said Ed- 
 mund, " but how can any one like this better than the 
 smell of the earth and the sight of green fields with 
 flowers blowing in them? They are a strange folk." 
 " They are born to this lot," Gilbert answered, " and 
 that makes a world of difference; but look you thro' 
 this opening — dost see that great wall yonder with the 
 Castle rising from the hill within it? That is the Tower 
 of London, and I tell thee, lad, there have been many 
 people within those walls, and of good blood too, who 
 would gladly have changed places with the meanest on 
 this bridge if they might have their freedom too. The 
 Queen is not in the Palace now — she holds her Christ- 
 mas revels at Greenwich this year. They say she has 
 little love for this old pile, for she was once a prisoner 
 there herself, and does not forget it. There is the water 
 gate — which she passed through as a captive. I '11 war- 
 rant she saw many a head fall on Tower Hill in Mary's 
 reign, for Protestant heads fell there like ripe apples 
 in a gale of wind. England may well thank God for 
 Queen Bess," and Gilbert reverently bared his head. 
 
 " I 'm glad I did n't live then," said Edmund with 
 conviction. " But who are all these people coming from 
 the other end of the bridge, Gilbert?" "The play is 
 over, and these are Londoners on their way home from 
 
 [ xxiii ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 the Theatre. That handsome young man on horseback, 
 followed by his servants, is the Eai-1 of Pembroke — he 
 is a great friend of Will's, I 'm told, and yonder is an- 
 other of his acquaintance — Ben Jonson, the poet. 
 Hurry, lad — thou canst not stand still to watch them 
 or we shall be too late for Will. If we hasten we shall 
 catch him as he goes to his supper." " And the best of 
 all good times to catch him too, say I," was Edmund's 
 response ; " I 'm as hungry as a wolf. Every man to 
 his trade, and eating is mine." " Thou showest excellent 
 zeal in the pursuit of it," Gilbert admitted — " not every 
 boy of fifteen could hold so much." 
 
 " 'T is practice does it," said Edmund, complacently, 
 as he hastened his steps; and a few moments more of 
 brisk walking brought them to the door of the Tabard 
 Inn. 
 
 Edmund sniffed the savory breeze that issued from 
 the door with the air of a connoisseur. " Good roast 
 beef for one thing," he pronounced — " 't will answer 
 my purpose well. Let 's go in, Gilbert, and see if Will 
 has come. We can at least smell the cooking as we 
 wait." They slipped into the tap room with a number 
 of other comers, and peering about the dimly lighted 
 interior saw in the farthest corner of the room a group 
 of men standing together about an oaken table. 
 
 The late afternoon light, shining through the latticed 
 window, fell dimly upon their faces as the men listened 
 with eager attention to something that one of their num- 
 ber — a man of middle height with a grave, kind face — 
 M^as saying. " There he is," whispered Gilbert, pinching 
 Edmund's arm — "dost see Will? He is speaking to 
 the others and they hang upon his words even as I did 
 when we were boys together, and he used to frighten 
 sleep from mine eyes with his tales of fairies and gob- 
 lins after we had gone to bed! I wish he would speak 
 louder." " Whatever he says, 't is something they like 
 
 [ xxiv ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 to hear," answered Edmund. "See how well pleased 
 they look! " 
 
 As the low murmur of the speaker's voice ceased his 
 audience broke into a clamour of delight — "To play in 
 the Christmas revels before the Queen," shouted one 
 ecstatically — ^ " this shows that her Majesty's Master 
 of the Revels is indeed a man of sense. I had not thought 
 so well of Master Tylney! " "Listen, brothers" — • 
 shouted another as he hugged himself and cut a caper. 
 "What sayeth buUy Bottom! Get your apparel to- 
 gether, good strings to your beards, new ribbons to your 
 pumps, meet presently at the palace, for the short and 
 the long is — our play is preferred." 
 
 " Leave thy nonsense for the stage, Phillips," said a 
 taUer man with a pointed beard, as he seized a tankard 
 from the table, and lifting it in the air, shouted, " I give 
 you the Queen. God bless her ! " 
 
 The others seized theirs with like enthusiasm, and 
 drank the toast with their hands upon the hilts of their 
 swords. When they had finished, the tall man again 
 lifted his tankard, crying, " and after the Queen 
 I give you her Majesty's most distinguished play- 
 wright — Will Shakespeare ! " " Will ! Will ! " shouted 
 the men in chorus — " here 's to thee," and drank 
 again, buffeting Will affectionately on the back as they 
 did so. 
 
 " They drink his health as tho' he were a prince, tho' 
 more familiarly," said Edmund in an awe-stricken whis- 
 per. " Are they all dukes and lords, Gilbert, think 
 you?" "Nay, simpleton," said Gilbert with superior 
 scorn — " they are but some of the Lord Chamberlain's 
 players. The man who gave the toasts is Richard Bur- 
 bage, the manager and chief actor in the company. The 
 funny man is the clown, Augustus Phillips, and two of 
 the others, Heminge and Condell, I have seen on the 
 stage. They are great friends of Will's." The men had 
 
 [ XXV ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 seated themselves at the table, and Burbage's voice rose 
 again above the clatter. 
 
 " At Greenwich for the Christmas revels before the 
 Queen ! was there ever such luck ! And to think we have 
 been rehearsing thy new play, Will, for this — without 
 ever knowing it! If it pleases the Queen thou hast made 
 all our fortunes! Why, man, when she sees the Fairy 
 Queen in love with an ass I 11 warrant she '11 say 't is 
 the merriest conceit ever shown on the stage." 
 
 " Thou art ever a partial critic, Diccon," said Will, 
 speaking for the first time so that his voice reached the 
 ears of Gilbert and Edmund — " and it is surely good 
 fortune as thou sayest, that the play is so well prepared, 
 for the time would be but short for new plans if we had 
 not this ready to hand. It needs but a few touches by way 
 of compliment to the Queen's Majesty. That speech for 
 Oberon's mouth shall hit its mark if I miss not my aim. 
 Dost recall the lines, Diccon? " and he declaimed: 
 
 " A certain aim he took 
 At a fair Vestal, throned in 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 fieiy shaft 
 Quenched in the chaste beams of the watery moon. 
 And the imperial Votaress passes on 
 In maiden meditation fancy free." 
 
 " Ah, Will, thou art a very magician with words," 
 sighed Diccon. 
 
 " No woman, tho' a Queen, could resist such compli- 
 ments as thine," said Heminge. 
 
 " There 's one thing to trouble us," spoke up another 
 — a fresh-faced youth, younger than the rest. " Dost re- 
 member the lad who takes the part of the second fairy 
 in Titania's train? He went home sick with fever this 
 morning, and will surely not be well in time for the 
 Christmas revels, for 't is now the evening of the 22nd. 
 We must find another lad for the part." 
 { xxvi ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEAKE'S DAY 
 
 " Gilbert," said Edmund, " shall we stand here all the 
 evening listening to their talk, with never a bite nor sup 
 for ourselves? Why dost thou not speak to him? " 
 
 " Go thou," said Gilbert. " Thou art the younger, 
 and 't is fitting thou shouldst speak thine errand thyself." 
 
 "Not so," said Edmund; "thou art the elder and 
 should have precedence." " Let us send the boy who 
 serves to announce us, then," said Gilbert; " for to say 
 the truth we are both a httle shy of presenting ourselves 
 before all this company. Here, boy " - — to the drawer 
 — " commend us to Master Shakespeare, and say that 
 his brothers Gilbert and Edmund would speak with him." 
 
 The serving boy ran to the table and whispered in the 
 ear of the playwright. Master Shakespeare rose quickly, 
 searching the room with his eyes; and when he discov- 
 ered his brothers, came forward with a hand outstretched 
 to each — " Gilbert, thou art no stranger," he said cor- 
 dially; "but Edmund — thou art as unexpected as a 
 snowstorm in May, and far more welcome! What 
 brings thee from Stratford? Not evil tidings, surely? 
 Are all well at home? " 
 
 " As well and hale as any in England," Edmund an- 
 swered. " Mother and Anne and Aunt Joan and the 
 girls all sent thee many messages ; I have come to Lon- 
 don in old Greenway's cart to spend the Christmas holi- 
 day with thee and Gilbert, and to see thee play." " Thou 
 shalt not only see me play," answered the master, observ- 
 ing the lad keenly, as if struck by a sudden idea, " but 
 perchance shalt play thyself, and that before the Queen ! 
 What say est thou to that? " and he threw an arm over 
 Edmund's shoulder, and beckoning to Gilbert led the 
 way back to the table. 
 
 " Look here, Diccon, and the rest of you," he said 
 gaily as he approached, " these are my brothers — Gil- 
 bert and Edmund. They are excellent good fellows 
 both, and will dine with us. What think you gossips — 
 [ xxvii ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 is not the lad sent by fortune herself to take the place 
 of the sick boy? Thou seest the roses in his cheeks — 
 he '11 make a pretty lass without the help of paint. And, 
 moreover, he hath a sweet breath for singing ! The part 
 is but small, and I will train him myself." 
 
 " The very thing," cried the youth who had first 
 spoken. " Sit beside me, Edmund, for I am Titania in 
 the play, and thou shouldst rightly be in my train ! Make 
 room for Gilbert between thee and Will, Diccon, and 
 we '11 give them the fairy chorus to try his voice before 
 he eats ! Now — all together " — and the company 
 good-naturedly burst into the chorus : 
 
 " Philomel, with Melody 
 Sing in our sweet lullaby ; " 
 
 Edmund was too much dazed with the sudden manner 
 of his adoption into the company to be able to fix his 
 attention on the music at first, but the song was so con- 
 tagious and spirited that he and Gilbert both soon found 
 themselves beating time and singing with the others, 
 
 " Never harm, 
 Nor spell, nor charm. 
 Come our lovely lady nigh ; 
 So good night, with lullaby." 
 
 " Gently, gently, all of you," laughed Will at the 
 end of the second time through. " Thy lullaby would 
 waken the seven sleepers! Thou art fairies, remember, 
 and should sing small. Now once more — and with 
 moderation! " 
 
 " The boy hath indeed a silvery pipe," said Titania, 
 "and will serve excellently; that his name is Shakes- 
 peare is assurance for that! " 
 
 " And what says the lad himself? " said Will, kindly. 
 " Wouldst like to see the Queen and play with the Lord 
 Chamberlain's own men at the Palace? If so, thou hast 
 but to say the word! " 
 
 [ xxviii ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 " I will not be so bold as to refuse if thou art per- 
 suaded I can do it ; but I tell thee, Will, my knees smite 
 together at the thought of it," said Edmund. " 'T will 
 not show beneath thy robes," said Will, gaily. " So the 
 matter is settled, and now thou shalt eat thy fill. Drawer 
 — two trenchers and tankards for my brothers, and see 
 that thou fill them well." 
 
 II 
 
 That night Gilbert returned alone to his haberdashery 
 shop, leaving Edmund with Will. The boy was so tired 
 with his long journey and the excitement of the day that 
 he could scarcely stay awake long enough when they 
 were alone after supper to answer his brother's many 
 questions about the family and friends at Stratford ; and 
 when at last he was ofi'ered a bed in Will's room at the 
 Tabard Inn he fell asleep at once and knew nothing 
 more until morning. When he awoke the sun was 
 streaming in at an eastern window, and Will was sitting 
 up in bed, writing busily and smoking a pipe. Tobacco 
 had only recently been brought to England by Sir 
 Walter Raleigh from the wonderful new world across 
 the sea; and Edmund had never heard of it, so when 
 he saw the smoke curling from his brother's lips he 
 was alarmed, and springing up, cried out — " WiU — 
 Will — how shall I put thee out? Thou art burning! " 
 WiU took the pipe from his mouth and laughed immod- 
 erately. " Thou art as green as Sir Walter's own ser- 
 vant," he said. " Some day thou wilt burn in the same 
 way thyself, doubtless, and yet not be consumed — 
 except with a desire for more," and he blew a ring in the 
 air. " Judging by thy sleep," he went on merrily, " thou 
 hast kept a good conscience. I have had my breakfast 
 without disturbing thee, and now when thou art ready 
 thou shalt have thine. The boy shall bring it up, and 
 
 [ xxix ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 then I will read thee the play, for the time is but short 
 for thee to prepare thy part. Now let me burn in peace 
 until thou art ready." 
 
 Edmund was too hungry to waste words about a 
 matter he did not understand. He had already discov- 
 ered that London was full of such, so he dressed quickly, 
 and warmed himself by a run to the pump in the inn 
 yard and a cold splash which set the roses blooming in his 
 cheeks again. When he returned he found a well-fiUed 
 wooden trencher awaiting him, and disposed of its con- 
 tents in such a brief space of time that Will, watching 
 him, said, laughingly, " If thou canst learn thy part with 
 equal dispatch, brother, thou wilt put us all to shame! 
 Now give me thine ears. Hast even seen a play? " 
 " Marry have I," responded Edmund, glad to appear 
 well informed on some subject; " when I was but seven 
 I saw my lord of Leicester's own men play at Stratford. 
 I cannot tell the name of it now, but there was a deal of 
 killing it in, and 't was a right merry play." " It must 
 have been merry indeed," said Will, " and by the same 
 standard I fear this one will be but dull ; for were it not 
 that one clown is slain by a lion and another for love not 
 a di'op of blood would be shed in the whole piece. Yet 
 the desperate character of these deaths should atone for 
 their scarcity, and there 's plenty of quarrelling to fill 
 the measure — what think you? " 
 
 Edmund considered the matter. " Perhaps 't is as 
 well to let it pass at high words," he concluded, " for 
 every one knows stage kilhng is no better than a pre- 
 tense. I knew that when I was but seven, for I saw some 
 of the knights who met bloody deaths on the stage walk- 
 ing about the Inn yard afterward in lusty health." 
 
 " Just mine own thought," said Will, solemnly; " and 
 to make the matter more clear it is fully set forth in the 
 play that the lion is no worse beast than a man in lion's 
 clothing. 'T is a Christian device to save the blood- 
 
 [ XXX ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 thirsty instincts of the audience." " I should think so 
 truly," said Edmund, heartily; " and I cannot think 
 why it is when such care is used, lest virtue be offended, 
 that the Puritans should so object to the playhouse." 
 " Nor I," said WUl, his eyes twinkling, " unless, per- 
 chance, all playwrights are not so exemplary; but thou 
 shalt judge for thyself," and he began to read. 
 
 The morning flew by in the study of the play. Will 
 took great pains with Edmund, teaching him the few 
 words of his part, and picturing scene after scene of the 
 play, that he might the more clearly grasp the spirit of 
 the whole. 
 
 " Remember, thou art a fairy — nothing less," he 
 charged him; " thy motions must be as hght as thistle 
 down. Now, let me see thee run and leap upon the bed 
 as tho' thou hadst wings indeed — and were quite inde- 
 pendent of thy legs. Well done, lad! a little more like 
 leap frog than like wings, possibly, but very well for a 
 beginning. Now, let us have thy song." Singing was 
 as natural to Edmund as to the throstle in spring, and 
 Will was so well pleased with his memory of the fairy 
 song, that when he came to the chorus for the second 
 time he joined in with his own voice, and both were so 
 intent upon the singing that the boy from below stairs 
 had to knock twice at their door to summon them to 
 dinner. 
 
 " Thou hast done a good morning's work," said Will 
 to Edmund, later, as they rose from the table in the Inn 
 and looked out of the window; " and now thou shalt go 
 with me to the play. See, the flags and banners are 
 streaming from the Theatre so the people on the other 
 side of the Thames can see them and know that there is 
 to be a play. Get thyself ready in a twinkling lest we 
 be late, for my cue comes early." 
 
 Edmund was soon ready, and they set forth in such 
 good season that it was possible for them to glance, in 
 
 [ xxxi ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 passing, at Paris Garden, where the bear baiting was; 
 but Edmund had httle desire to see that cruel sport. 
 When they reached the playhouse Will found a good 
 place for Edmund, and then left him to himself, while he 
 hastened to the tiring room to get ready for his part. 
 
 That afternoon was to Edmund like a wonderful 
 dream. To see a play in a real theatre, to see Will him- 
 self upon the stage, to recognize beneath the paint and 
 in their alien characters the men whom he had met famil- 
 iarly at supper the night before, to watch the dandies as 
 they seated themselves upon the stage, the better to be 
 seen and admired by the audience, to see the richly 
 dressed ladies in their galleries, each wearing a black 
 mask over the upper part of her face, and to hear the 
 shouts and jokes of the poorer people in the pit, — all 
 these things were to him experiences almost surpassing 
 the bounds of imagination. 
 
 After the play he supped again with Will and his 
 friends — this time at The Falcon — where all the wits 
 of London were accustomed to gather, and heard such 
 table talk and such jests that he almost forgot to eat, but 
 sat listening like a visitor from another world. He tried 
 to remember Stratford, and the simple homely life he 
 was accustomed to there. He could bring it no nearer 
 than a dream — this, this was life indeed ! Here there 
 was something to interest one every moment of the day, 
 — new things to see, new people to meet, and an atmos- 
 phere of gaiety so infectious that he Avondered if any 
 one could ever tire of it. He marveled that Will should 
 talk of returning to Stratford to live again the unevent- 
 ful life of rural England. He even forgot for a moment 
 his own love for the fields and roads, and felt that the 
 town was the only place for a lad of spirit who wished to 
 see the world. 
 
 Christmas was already in the air. The landlord's face 
 took on a more ruddy hue as he plied his guests with ale, 
 [ xxxii ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 cracked jokes with old acquaintances, thumped the 
 drawers with his fist to make them fly the faster in atten- 
 dance upon his patrons, keeping all the while a careful 
 eye upon the fire, roaring up the wide-throated chimney. 
 The tap room itself had an air of Christmas cheer; 
 wreaths of English holly and ivy made the wall gay, and 
 a huge spray of mistletoe hung above the door. Even 
 the viands suggested the approach of Christmas, for 
 mine host of The Falcon had provided a roast pig for 
 the entertainment of the players, knowing that on Christ- 
 mas day they were to dine elsewhere; and when the 
 platter appeared, dressed with holly and Avith a rosy 
 apple in the pig's mouth, the company greeted it with 
 the old song, " The Boar is dead, Lo here is his head," in 
 a mighty chorus, Edmund joining in with all his might, 
 for he knew the old song well. The feast ended with a 
 great plum pudding, its flaming splendor borne aloft by 
 the jolly innkeeper himself. " Here 's to mine host," 
 called Diccon Burbage, who seemed always to act as 
 master of ceremonies on these occasions, lifting his tank- 
 ard as the pudding appeared: 
 
 " Let's drink to him in English ale — 
 English ale that drives out thinking 
 Prince of liquors, old or new." 
 
 " Sing it, Dick, sing it," cried the others; and as they 
 drank the toast Burbage stood up and sang a verse of the 
 roUicking old carol : 
 
 "And now — by Christmas, jolly soul ! 
 By this mansion's generous sire ! 
 By the wine and by the bowl. 
 And all the joys they both inspire ! 
 Here I '11 drink a health to all. 
 The glorious task shall first be mine 
 And ever may foul luck befall 
 Him that to pledge me shall decline." 
 
 And then, "Hail Father Christmas; hail to thee!" 
 rose the chorus, the whole company taking up the refrain. 
 [ xxxiii ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 Mine host was visibly flattered by this tribute to his good 
 cheer, and beamed dehghtedly upon the company. 
 
 " Aye, ye may well praise the liquor," he said; " 't is 
 the best of its kind ; and as for the capon and roast pig, 
 thou 'It get no better at the Queen's own table." 
 
 " We '11 prove thy words to-morrow night," shouted 
 Phillips, " for to-morrow we dine at Greenwich Palace ; 
 an' they have better ale than thine, upon mine honour as 
 a knave, I '11 agree to drink it ! " 
 
 It was late when the merry players left the hospitable 
 Falcon, and Edmund was so tired that he stumbled 
 sleepily along the streets beside Will and Dick Burbage, 
 whose path lay in the same direction. As they parted 
 at the door of the Tabard Inn, Burbage pinched Ed- 
 mund's cheek and said, " To-morrow morning, fledg- 
 ling, we shall see thy first flight. Be ready for rehearsal 
 at ten ; for at noon, as soon as we have had a bite to eat, 
 we start for Greenwich to see the Queen. How dost 
 thou like the life of a player, lad? Art in a hurry to re- 
 turn to Stratford? " 
 
 " Nay," said Edmund, leaning against Will, " I 'm 
 not wishing for Stratford. A player's life is the life for 
 me, and when I 'm grown I mean to be one hke WiU." 
 " There 's never another like Wfll," said Burbage, laugh- 
 ing; "but an actor thou canst be, nevertheless, and so 
 good-night." 
 
 The next morning Edmund awoke to the tune of 
 " Hey, Robin, jolly Robin," which WiU was gaily sing- 
 ing as he packed a hamper of clothes for Greenwich. He 
 at once sprang out of bed, and dressed in a hurry in order 
 to be ready for the rehearsal, though his knees smote to- 
 gether at the thought of it. When at last he stepped out 
 of the tiring room of the Theatre, and stood, with WiU 
 beside him, waiting for his cue, he would have given his 
 whole London experience to be in the safe obscurity of 
 Stratford once more. The actor's life, which had seemed 
 [ xxxiv ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 so charming the night before, suddenly appeared to be 
 full of hard work and possible mortifications, and he 
 came very near a real case of stage fright. WiU, know- 
 ing the symptoms, laughed at liim kindly, and said, 
 " Thou art the very pattern of a fairy in looks, my boy, 
 and thou art sure of thy lines, and canst sing hke a bird, 
 so have no fear. Thy knees will be stiff enough when the 
 time comes to act thy part, for thou art a true English 
 lad, and afraid of nothing. Come, peep thro' tliis crack 
 and see Theseus and Hyppolita come on the stage. 
 Doth not the lad make a fine Amazon? " What boy 
 could resist an opportunity hke that? Edmund flew to 
 the crack, and soon forgot all else in the movement and 
 fun of the play. He chuckled with delight at the merry 
 antics of Phillips as Bottom, and was so much in the 
 spirit of the midsummer night madness that when his 
 own cue came he skipped lightly out upon the stage, and 
 sung his song with an abandon that surprised even him- 
 self. " Why, I 'm not scared at all," he told himself joy- 
 fully. Win met him as he came behind the scenes again, 
 and laughed at him. " Where is thy fright now? " he 
 said, playfully, pinching Edmund's cheek. " Thou wert 
 as self-possessed as a veteran! Well done! " 
 
 At noon, after a hasty lunch, the whole company as- 
 sembled at Paul's wharf, warmly dressed for a cold ride 
 on the river. There they were met by a small fleet of 
 wherries and stowed away comfortably in them. Ed- 
 mund was in the boat with his brother, and Will pointed 
 out to him the sights of London as they slipped along. 
 London bridge grew gray in the distance behind them, 
 and the Tower looked smaller and smaller as the rowers 
 bent to their oars ; the houses became more scattered, and 
 finally they were quite beyond the walls of London and 
 out in the open country. In the late afternoon they saw 
 before them the Towers of Greenwich Palace rising 
 above the trees in the distance ; another mile or two and 
 
 [ XXXV ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 the tired oarsmen deftly steered their boats against the 
 piling and timbers which made a wide landing place at 
 the river edge, and the players climbed stiffly ashore. 
 The villagers had come down through the straggling 
 streets of Greenwich to greet them, and the Queen had 
 sent her own yeomen of the guard — great fellows 
 dressed in red, with golden Tudor roses embroidered on 
 their breasts and backs — to escort them to the Palace. 
 They made a brave procession as they moved up the nar- 
 row village streets with banners flying, and Edmund, 
 walking with Will, felt as proud as a prince as he looked 
 at the town boys and remembered the time when he too 
 had run beside the procession of players — admiring 
 them as these little boys now admired and envied him. 
 He began to feel again that the player's life was the 
 finest in the world, and when he sat down in the Queen's 
 own palace to such a dinner as he had never dreamed of 
 in his life, served by pages in magnificent apparel, upon 
 tables of such rich workmanship that a single one meant 
 more wealth than any one in Stratford could boast, he 
 could not believe that he, Edmund Shakespeare, was 
 himself at all. "It is nothing short of enchantment," 
 he whispered to himself. 
 
 The Queen had been born at Greenwich and loved it 
 best of all her palaces. Here she surrounded herself with 
 such splendour that foreign visitors must perforce be al- 
 most blinded by her magnificence. The walls were hung 
 with the costliest silks embroidered in gold and precious 
 stones and with rich tapestries and cloths of gold and 
 silver. The throne itself in the audience room was ablaze 
 with precious stones, and over it hung a velvet canopy 
 with " vivat Regina Elizabetha " embroidered upon it in 
 pearls. Elizabeth well knew the value of the splendours 
 of royalty. Modesty and humility have no place among 
 regal virtues, and the Queen set her subjects the example 
 of immense respect for the person of royalty. Her 
 [ xxxvi ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 palace was fitted with gorgeously appareled guards, 
 ushers, and noblemen and noble women in waiting, and 
 no matter how proud their birth or station a smile from 
 the Queen was to all of them the greatest reward to be 
 received in the world. Edmund made good use of his 
 eyes as he left the great dining hall with the other players 
 and was conducted through magnificent corridors and 
 apartments to the great hall where on the morrow the 
 play was to be given. Here in a spacious room lighted 
 by a thousand candles they prepared for the play, ar- 
 ranging the simple stage setting, examining the magnifi- 
 cent embroidered curtain which the Queen had provided 
 for use at the back of the stage, and conducting a final 
 rehearsal in order to be sure that each actor knew his own 
 place in his new surroundings. It was quite eleven 
 o'clock when their work was finally done and the tired 
 actors followed the ushers to the apartments reserved for 
 them for the night. 
 
 When at last Edmund had a chance to sleep it mat- 
 tered little to him whether it was in the Palace of the 
 Queen or in his own bed at Stratford, for he knew 
 nothing of the splendour about him until he opened his 
 eyes on Christmas morning. 
 
 It was barely dawn when he was awakened by a great 
 noise of shouts, wild songs, jingling bells and the sound 
 of many feet clattering upon the stones of the Court 
 yard. He sprang to the casement and looked down, 
 knowing quite well what he should see, for the Christmas 
 merriments were of the same rough character throughout 
 England, and he, himself, with the other boys of Strat- 
 ford, had more than once been followers in the train of 
 his highness, the Lord of Misrule. There was his maj- 
 esty in the court yard of the Queen, surrounded by a 
 crowd of followers fantastically clad in liveries of green, 
 yellow, and scarlet, with strings of bells around about 
 their legs which jingled as they walked or capered about 
 [ xxxvii ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 in the Morris dance. Some rode upon hobby horses, 
 others made wild music for the dancers upon pipes and 
 drums and all acted like the veriest mad men on a holiday. 
 This pandemonium continued until the Queen's servants 
 appeared among them with Cliristmas gifts from the 
 Queen, of meat, cheese, cakes, and ale, which were eagerly 
 seized and as eagerly devoured by the mummers. After 
 they had gone Edmund lay down once more upon his 
 bed, for it was still too early to get up, and besides he did 
 not know where he might be permitted to go in the 
 Palace, and as he lay half asleep in the conscious luxury 
 of his warm, soft bed, a very different sound reached his 
 ear — the Waits, chanting Christmas hymns in celebra- 
 tion of the Saviour's birth. What a day it was for Ed- 
 mund, full of sights, strange and magnificent, and of 
 Christmas cheer at the table of the Queen ! Her majesty 
 had given special commands for the entertainment of the 
 players, and their Christmas dinner was even more splen- 
 did than the banquet of the night before. Edmund's 
 head whirled with the crowding events and he feared he 
 should not be able to remember all that happened to tell 
 to the boys of Stratford, among whom he saw himself 
 a hero for this experience. 
 
 At last the hour arrived for the performance. The 
 actors were ready behind the scenes, the hall was alight 
 with so many candles that it made Edmund think of the 
 sky on a starry night. He stood with Will in the dim 
 light behind the curtain, peeping through a fold at the 
 splendour beyond. From this point of vantage he gazed 
 across the stage which projected into the room and saw a 
 great company of the noblest men and women of Eng- 
 land dressed with such dazzling brilliancy that it seemed 
 to him that splendour could go no farther. " Wait until 
 you see the Queen," whispered Will; " she does not per- 
 mit herself to be outshone. She will appear among the 
 others hke the moon in the milky way." Edmund won- 
 [ xxxviii ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 dered how that could be, for the room was gay with rich 
 brocades and brilliant embroidery with gold lace and 
 flashing gems, the men being no less splendid than the 
 women. " Gaze thy fill," whispered WUl, " for never 
 again in thy hf e wilt thou see such an assemblage of lords 
 and ladies! See yonder the foreign ambassadors, with 
 their suites, and there talking to my Lord of Burleigh is 
 Sir Walter Raleigh himself! He is a prime favourite 
 with the Queen, for he has made her rich in lands beyond 
 the seas." 
 
 A flourish of trimapets soimded in the distance, silence 
 swept over the gay assemblage, a voice in the corridor 
 was heard calling, " Way here, way here," and the lords 
 and ladies parted, leaving a wide open aisle in the centre 
 of the room. In the doorway appeared the Queen's Mas- 
 ter of Revels, in magnificent apparel, attended by pages 
 in livery of white and gold. After them came the maids 
 of honour, with the noblemen in immediate attendance 
 upon the Queen, a gorgeous company, and then the 
 Queen herself, walking proudly alone, acknowledging 
 the deep reverences of the Court with a manner haughty 
 yet not disdainful, and speaking to one and another as 
 she progressed. 
 
 Edmund's knees shook with excitement. He seized 
 Will's hand and found it cold. " Thou art frightened 
 too. Will, I verily believe," he gasped. " How shall I 
 ever play before her ! She is indeed like the moon in the 
 Milky Way, and as learned as she is grand. Dost see 
 her speak to the foreigners — to each in a different 
 tongue? And her crown! The hght of it blinds me! 
 And her gown embroidered with pearls! Look at her 
 ruff and the mantle streaming behind her like the trail of 
 a comet ! Oh, WiU, WiU, what am I that I should sing 
 before the Queen! " At that moment Elizabeth took her 
 place on a raised dais near the stage, the maids of honour 
 grouped themselves about her, and there was a subdued 
 [ xxxix ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 ripple of excitement behind the curtain as Burbage went 
 about for a final survey of the players who waited 
 breathlessly for the signal to begin the play. In the 
 hush of this instant Will seized Edmund by the shoulders 
 and shook him lightly. " Queen or no Queen," he 
 whispered sternly, " thou art here to play thy part. 
 Wouldst like to go back to Stratford and tell the boys 
 thou wert afraid of aught? Thou 'It do thy best, and thy 
 best is well enough, so no more whimpering, but watch 
 well for thy cue." Edmund manfully swallowed the 
 lump in his throat and took a fresh grip upon his courage. 
 A flourish of trumpets sounded, and Will ready in his 
 cloak of black velvet parted the curtain with a quick 
 movement and stepped forth upon the stage to recite 
 the prologue written for the occasion. A mui'mur ran 
 through the house. "It is Will Shakespeare, who hath 
 written the play," and the Queen herself welcomed him 
 with a smile. Edmund listened to the familiar voice, rich, 
 full, and modulated, giving the lines of the prologue, and 
 a moment later caught a flying glimpse of Will as he re- 
 appeared behind the curtain and fled to the tiring room 
 to dress for his part in the play. Once more the curtain 
 parted. Enter Theseus and Hyppolita — the play is 
 begun ! 
 
 Edmund felt his heart come up in his throat. Titania 
 Oberon and Puck took their places to be ready the mo- 
 ment their cue sounded, and in the fairy train stood 
 Edmund, the smallest of them all, his eyes shining and 
 his cheeks glowing with excitement. 
 
 The first act ended triumphantly. Puck and the first 
 fairy opened the Second with their merry meeting, and 
 at last the great moment came ! Edmund himself slipped 
 through the entrance and found himself in a blaze of light 
 flitting gaily about Titania in the middle of the stage, 
 forgetting everything but his part and his desire not to 
 disappoint the big brother for whose good opinion he so 
 much cared. 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 Will's eyes were upon him he knew, but what he did 
 not know was that a murmur of admiration ran about 
 the room as he sang " Weaving Spiders come not hence," 
 in his sweet boy's voice, making at the same time so fair 
 a picture that the Queen herself deigned to ask his name. 
 " A young brother of WiU Shakespeare's," whispered 
 some one, and the Queen, listening, murmured, " A well- 
 favoured lad, with the voice of a thrush and brother to a 
 poet. We must remember him." 
 
 Another moment and they were once more behind the 
 scenes, and Edmund, caught in Will's embrace heard 
 him say, " Bravo, my lad! Sometime thou shalt stay in 
 London with thy brother Will and be an actor indeed. 
 It is in thy blood and I am proud of thee ! " Will was 
 proud of him — of him — Edmund Shakespeare ! He 
 paused to consider it. At the moment Burbage flew by, 
 stopping just long enough to smite Will joyfully on the 
 shoulder and to say in a whisper, " All, Will, thou art the 
 fisherman for trout that must be caught with ticlding! 
 Did'st see the Queen's face when Oberon made his 
 speech? And as for thee, youngster," he added, turning 
 to Edmund, " thou art the pattern of a fairy and worthy 
 thy name ! " Had the world more to offer ? To Edmund 
 the rest of the evening passed in a happy bewilderment. 
 
 He heard as in a dream the burst of laughter and ap- 
 plause from the audience. Once he even heard a ripple 
 of laughter from the Queen herself, when Peter Quince 
 said to Bottom in the asses head, " Bless thee, thou art 
 translated! " The evident delight of the hearers inspired 
 the actors with new spirit, and they played their parts 
 with such abandon and fire that both actors and audience 
 were carried away in a gale of infectious merriment, each 
 new antic of Phillips, as Bottom, or of Puck, provoking 
 such outbursts of laughter that sometimes the lines could 
 scarcely be finished for the noise. At last it was all over. 
 Puck had finished his epilogue and the whole company 
 
 [xli] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 gathered behind the curtain once more gave themselves 
 up to unmixed joy. " As I prophesied, Will," said Bur- 
 bage, seizing WiU and hugging him before them all, 
 " thy wit hath made our fortunes. If we had but the 
 space to do it in we would carry thee on our shoulders. 
 As it is, — but hist, — here comes Master Tylney." 
 Burbage stepped forward, bowing profoundly as the 
 Master of Revels appeared, gorgeous in gold lace and 
 further ornamented with a smile so broad that it was 
 evident he took upon himself full credit for having sup- 
 plied her majesty with so good an entertainment. " Hey, 
 Master Burbage," he said pompously, " thou hast so de- 
 lighted the Queen with thy play that she desires to see 
 thee and Master Shakespeare and all thy company. 
 Follow me! " He turned, beckoning them with a ma- 
 jestic wave of his arm, and strutted forth like a turkey 
 cock at the head of his flock. Phillips, the moment his 
 back was turned, fell in behind him, imitating his im- 
 portant manner so faithfully that the younger members 
 of the company tittered, and Burbage, grinning himself, 
 was obliged to seize him summarily by the collar and 
 send him whirling to the rear, while he, with Will, headed 
 the little procession in the wake of the Master of Revels. 
 
 Edmund fell in with the other fairies in the train of 
 Titania and found himself a moment later almost blinded 
 by the bright lights of the room, and further dazzled by 
 his nearer view of beautiful ladies and richly dressed 
 gentlemen of the Court, who stood about talking to- 
 gether and watching curiously the group of actors as 
 they passed by. 
 
 Another instant and they stood in the Presence. The 
 Queen surrounded by her maids was still seated upon her 
 dais and when Edmund first caught sight of her she was 
 gaily bandying words with the Lord Chamberlain, the 
 patron of their company. As Burbage and Shakespeare 
 knelt before her she smiled upon them, and as a special 
 
 [xlii] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 mark of favor gave them her hand to kiss. " Thou hast 
 bewitched another Queen than Titania by thine enchant- 
 ments," she said. " For thine excellent play receive my 
 thanks, and from the hands of Master Tylney a gift be- 
 sides to each one in the company, and for thee," she 
 added, beckoning to Edmund who was shrinking behind 
 the others, " this golden Tudor rose, because thou art 
 the smallest of players and thy name is Shakespeare, and 
 because thou hast pleased the Queen." Edmund thrust 
 forward by the others, when the Queen beckoned him, 
 had fallen upon his knees, a grateful provision of eti- 
 quette, for they were shaking beneath him alarmingly. 
 Something seemed to fill his throat and he could find no 
 words to thank her as he received the trinket from her 
 hand. She noted his embarrassment, patted him kindly 
 on the head, and said reassuringly, " Thy thanks are 
 written in thine eyes, there is no need for words," and 
 with a smile and nod concluded the audience, dismissing 
 the players to the care of her Master of Revels. Edmund 
 went out with the others his eyes shining, his cheeks red 
 with excitement, and the golden rose fastened proudly 
 upon his breast. When they were once more in safe se- 
 clusion of their room, he tlirew himself upon Will's neck 
 in an excess of joy, " Oh, Will, Will," he said, " what I 
 shall have to tell to mother and Anne and the girls, of 
 thee and thy life in London, and how the Queen herself 
 honoured me because I but bore the same name with thee ! 
 Didst thou really mean it when thou saidst I should 
 sometime stay with thee in London, and be a player, 
 too?" "I meant it truly," answered Will, "but first 
 thou must stay longer in school and study thy books, 
 for thou art but small for thy years and not strong 
 enough to bear the actor's life as yet. When thou art a 
 little older! There is plenty of time." 
 
 And with this assurance Edmund was well content. 
 It was a happy boy that slept at Greenwich Palace that 
 
 [ xliii ] 
 
IN SHAKESPEARE'S DAY 
 
 night and returned to London next day. When later 
 he met old Greenway before Gilbert's door to set forth 
 once more for Stratford town the jovial old carrier won- 
 dered at the change that one short week had made in his 
 favourite. " Thou art not the same Edmund," he sighed, 
 " I would not believe that a week could so transform 
 thee. What has come over thee, child? " "I have seen 
 the Queen, Master Greenway," said Edmund^ with dig- 
 nity, " and she gave me a golden rose, and sometime 
 I am to be an actor like Will. I shall not live always 
 in Stratford, but I shall always love thee for bringing 
 me to London." Old Greenway whistled. " So that 
 way hes the wind," said he, cracking his whip. " 'T is 
 time I took thee back to thy mother. Get up old gray," 
 and the cart rumbled away toward the west, leaving Gil- 
 bert gazing after them from the doorway of his shop. 
 
 [ xliv ] 
 
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 ACT FIRST — SCENE I —ATHENS 
 
 THE PALACE OF THESEUS 
 
 Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate, and Attendants 
 
 L HE. Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour 
 Draws on apace ; four happy days bring in 
 Another moon : but, O, 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. 
 
 Hip. 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. 
 
 [3] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 The. 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. [Exit Philostrate. 
 Hippolyta, I woo'd 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 revelling. 
 
 Enter Egeus, Heemia, Lysander, and Demetrics 
 
 Ege. Happy be Theseus, our renowned duke ! 
 
 The. Thanks, good Egeus : what 's the news with thee ? 
 
 Ege. Full of vexation come I, with complaint 
 Against my child, my daughter Hermia. 
 Stand forth, Demetrius. My noble lord, 
 This man hath my consent to marry her. 
 Stand forth, Lysander : and, my gracious duke, 
 This man hath bewitch'd 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 bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits, 
 Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats, messengers 
 
 ^ Loving or yearning voice. 
 [4] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Of strong prevailment in unharden'd youth : 
 
 With cunning hast thou filch 'd my daughter's heart ; 
 
 Turn'd 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 wath 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. 
 
 The. What say you, 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. 
 
 Her. So is Lysander. 
 
 The. In himself he is ; 
 
 But in this kind,^ wanting your father's voice, 
 The other must be held the worthier. 
 
 Her. I would my father look'd but with my eyes. 
 
 The. Rather your eyes must with his judgement look 
 
 Her. I do entreat your Grace to pardon me. 
 I know not by what power I am made bold, -^ 
 
 * In business of this nature. 
 [5] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 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. 
 
 The. Either to die the death, or to abjure 
 For ever the society of men. 
 Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires ; 
 Know of your youth, examine well your bloody 
 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 mew'd. 
 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 distill'd. 
 Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn. 
 Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness. 
 
 Her. So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord, 
 Ere I will yield my virgin patent up 
 Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke 
 My soul consents not to give sovereignty. 
 
 The. Take time to pause ; and, by the next new 
 moon, — 
 The sealing-day betwixt my love and me. 
 For everlasting bond of fellowship, — 
 
 [6] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 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 hfe. 
 
 Dem. Relent, sweet Hermia : and, Lysander, yield 
 Thy crazed title to my certain right. 
 
 Lys. You have her father's love, Demetrius ; 
 Let me have Hermia's : do you marry him. 
 
 Ege. 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. 
 
 Lys. I am, my lord, as well derived as he, 
 As well possess'd ; my love is more than his ; 
 My fortunes every way as fairly rank'd, 
 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 '11 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. 
 
 The. I must confess that I have heard so much. 
 And with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof; 
 
 [7] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 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. 
 Come, my Hippoljrta : what cheer, my love ? 
 Demetrius and Egeus, go along : 
 I must employ you in some business 
 Against our nuptial, and confer with you 
 Of something nearly that concerns yourselves. 
 
 Ege. With duty and desire we follow you. 
 
 [Exeu7it all but Lysander and Hermia. 
 
 Lys. How now, my love I why is your cheek so pale ? 
 How chance the roses there do fade so fast ? 
 
 Her. Belike for want of rain, which I could well 
 Beteem them from the tempest of my eyes. 
 
 Lys. Ay 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, — 
 
 Her. O cross ! too high to be enthrall'd to low. 
 
 Lys. Or else misgraffed^ in respect of years, — 
 
 1 111 grafted. 
 [8] 
 
LYSANDER AND HERMIA 
 
 L 
 
 YSANDER — How now, my love ! why is your 
 
 chfek so pale ? Act I, Scene i 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Her. O spite ! too old to be engaged to young. 
 
 Lys. Or else it stood upon the choice of friends, — 
 
 Her. O heU ! to choose love by another's eyes. 
 
 Lys. Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, 
 War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it. 
 Making it momentany * as a sound, 
 Swift as a shadow, short as any dream ; 
 Brief as the lightning in the collied ^ night. 
 That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth. 
 And ere a man hath power to say " Behold I " 
 The jaws of darkness do devour it up : 
 So quick bright things come to confusion. 
 
 Her. If then true lovers have been ever cross'd. 
 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. 
 
 Lys. 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 ; 
 
 * The same as momentary. 
 " Black. 
 
 [9] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 And to that place the sharp Athenian law 
 Cannot pursue us. If thou lovest me, then, 
 Steal forth thy father's house to-morrow 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. 
 
 Her. 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 fii'e which burn'd 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. 
 In that same place thou hast appointed me. 
 To-morrow truly wiU I meet with thee. 
 
 Lys. Keep promise, love. Look, here comes Helena. 
 Enter Helena 
 
 Her. God speed fair Helena ! whither away ? 
 
 Hel. Call you me fair ? that fair again unsay. 
 Demetrius loves your fair : O happy fair ! 
 Your eyes are lode-stars ; and your tongue's sweet air 
 
 ^ The celebration of May-day is a custom dating from the earliest 
 times. 
 
 [10] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear, 
 
 When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. 
 
 Sickness is catching ; O, were favour 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 M'^orld mine, Demetrius being bated. 
 
 The rest I 'Id give to be to you translated. 
 
 O, teach me how you look ; and with what art 
 
 You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart ! 
 
 Her. I frown upon him, yet he loves me stiU. 
 
 Hel. O that your frowns would teach my smiles 
 such skill I 
 
 Her. I give him curses, yet he gives me love. 
 
 Hel. O that my prayers could such affection move 1 
 
 Her. The more I hate, the more he foUows 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. 
 Before the time I did Lysander see, 
 Seem'd Athens as a paradise to me : 
 O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, 
 That he hath turn'd a heaven unto a heU ! 
 
 Lys. Helen, to you our minds we will unfold : 
 [11] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 To-morrow 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 have we devised to steal. 
 
 Her. And in the wood, where often you and I 
 Upon 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. 
 FareweU, sweet pla5rfellow : pray thou for us ; 
 And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius I 
 Keep word, Lysander : we must starve our sight 
 From lovers' food tiU morrow deep midnight. 
 
 Lys. I will, my Hermia. [Exit Herm. 
 
 Helena, adieu : 
 As you on him, Demetrius dote on you I [Exit. 
 
 Hel. How happy some o'er other some can be 1 
 Through Athens I am thought as fair as she. 
 But what of that ? Demetrius thinks not so ; 
 He wiU 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, 
 Lcove can transpose to form and dignity : 
 
 ^ The moon. 
 [12] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind ; 
 
 And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted bUnd : 
 
 Nor hath Love's mind of any judgement 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 look'd on Hermia's eyne,^ 
 
 He hail'd 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. 
 
 1 win go tell him of fair Hermia's flight : 
 
 Then to the wood wiU he to-morrow 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. [Exit 
 
 SCENE II — THE SAME 
 
 QUINCE'S HOUSE 
 
 Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, and Starveling 
 
 QuiN. Is all our company here ? 
 
 Box. You were best to call them generally, man by 
 
 man, according to the scrip. 
 
 1 Eyes. 
 [13] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 QuiN. Here is the scroll of every man's name, which 
 is thought fit, through all Athens^ to play in our inter- 
 lude before the duke and the duchess, on his wedding- 
 day at night. 
 
 Box. First, good Peter Quince, say what the play 
 treats on ; then read the names of the actors ; and so 
 grow to a point. 
 
 QuiN. 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 your 
 actors by the scroll. Masters, spread yourselves. 
 
 QuiN. Answer as I call you. Nick Bottom, the 
 weaver. 
 
 Box. Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed. 
 
 QuiN. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus. 
 
 Box. What is PjTamus ? a lover, or a tyrant ? 
 
 QuiN. A lover, that kills himself most gallant for 
 love. 
 
 Box. 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 : yet my chief humour is for a tyrant : I could play 
 Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in,^ to make all 
 spht. 
 
 * To rant violently. 
 [14] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 ITie 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. 
 
 QuiN. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. 
 
 Flu. Here, Peter Quince. 
 
 QuiN. Flute, you must take Thisby on you. 
 
 Flu. What is Thisby ? a wandering 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 small as you will. 
 
 BoT. An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby 
 too, I '11 speak in a monstrous Uttle voice, " Thisne, 
 Thisne ; " " Ah Pyramus, my lover dear ! thy Thisby 
 dear, and lady dear ! " 
 
 QuiN. No, no ; you must play Pyramus : and. Flute, 
 you Thisby. 
 
 BoT. Well, proceed. 
 
 QuiN. Robin Starveling, the tailor. 
 [15] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Star. Here, Peter Quince. 
 
 QuiN. Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby's 
 mother. Tom Snout, the tinker. 
 
 Snout. Here, Peter Quince. 
 
 QuiN. You, Pyramils' father : myself, Thisby's father : 
 Snug, the joiner ; you, the lion's part : and, I hope, 
 here is a play fitted. 
 
 Snug. Have you the lion's part written ? pray you, 
 if it be, give it me, for I am slow 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 say, " Let him roar again, 
 let him roar again." 
 
 QuiN. 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. 
 
 All. That would hang us, every mother's son. 
 
 BoT. I grant you, friends, if you should fright the 
 ladies out of their wits, they would have no more dis- 
 cretion but to hang us : but I will aggravate my voice 
 so, that I wiU roar you as gently as any sucking dove ; 
 I wiU roar you an 't were any nightingale. 
 
 QuiN. 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, 
 
 [16] 
 
BOTTOM AND THE PLAYERS 
 
 B 
 
 OTTOM — Let me play the lion too : I will 
 roar, that I idll make the duke say, ^^ Let 
 him roar again.'''' 
 
 Act I, Scene ii 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 gentleman-like man : therefore you must needs play 
 Pyramus. 
 
 Box. Well, 1 will undertake it. What beard were 
 I best to play it in ? 
 
 QuiN. Why, what you will. 
 
 Box. I will discharge it in either your straw colour 
 beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain 
 beard, or your French crown colour beard, your perfect 
 yellow. 
 
 QuiN. Some of your French crowns have no hair at 
 all, and then you wUl play barefaced. But, masters, here 
 are your parts : and I am to entreat you, request you, 
 and desire you, to con them by to-morrow night ; and 
 meet me in the palace wood, a mile without the town, 
 by moonlight ; there will we rehearse, for if we meet in 
 the city, we shall be dogged with company, and our de- 
 vices known. In the mean time I wLQ draw a biU of prop- 
 erties, such as our play wants. I pray you, fail me not. 
 
 Box. We will meet ; and there we may rehearse 
 most obscenely ^ and courageously. Take pains ; be 
 perfect : adieu. 
 
 QuiN. At the duke's oak we meet. 
 
 Box. Enough ; hold or cut bow-strings. \_Exeunt. 
 
 ^ An ignorant blunder for " seemly." 
 
 [17] 
 
ACT SECOND — SCENE I 
 
 A WOOD NEAR ATHENS 
 
 Enter, from opposite sides, a Fairy and Puck 
 
 A UCK. How now, spirit ! whither wander you ? 
 Fai. Over hill, over dale, 
 
 Thorough bush, thorough brier, 
 
 Over park, over pale, 
 
 Thorough flood, thorough fire, 
 
 I do wander every where. 
 
 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 favours, 
 
 In those freckles live their savours : 
 I must go seek some dewdrops here, 
 And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 
 
 ^ The " orbs" are the circles supposed to be made by fairies on the 
 ground and keep green by their care. 
 
 [18] 
 

 
 X 
 
 uuc Y'TXrc H - PEfi(vu-«5 
 
 PUCK AND THE FAIRY 
 
 'M~%UCK — How now, spirit ! whither wander you ? 
 jf"^ FAIRY — Over hill, over dale. 
 
 Thorough bush, thorough hier. 
 
 Act U, Scene i 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Farewell, thou lob of spirits ; I '11 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 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 : 
 And now they never meet in grove or green, 
 By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen, 
 But they do square, 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 shrewd and knavish sprite 
 Call'd Robin Goodfellow : are not you he 
 That frights the maidens of the villagery ; 
 Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern. 
 And bootless make the breathless housewife churn ; 
 And sometime make the drink to bear no barm ; 
 Mislead night- wanderers, laughing at their harm ? 
 Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck, 
 
 ^ There was a common superstition that fairies stole away beautiful 
 children, leaving elves in their places. 
 
 [19] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 You do their work, and they shall have good luck : 
 Are not you he ? 
 
 Puck. Thou speak'st aright ; 
 
 I am that merry wanderer of the night. 
 I jest to O heron, 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, 
 And " tailor " cries, and falls into a cough ; 
 And then the whole quire hold their hips and laugh ; 
 And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear 
 A merrier hour was never wasted there. 
 But, room, fairy ! here comes Oberon. 
 
 Fai. And here my mistress. Would that he were gone 
 
 Enter, from one side, Oberon, with his train ; from the other, 
 TiTANiA, with hers 
 
 Obe. Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania. 
 TiTA. What, jealous Oberon ! Fairies, skip hence : 
 I have forsworn his bed and company. 
 
 * A christening cup. 
 [20] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Obe. Tarry, rash wanton : am not I thy lord ? 
 
 TiTA. Then I must be thy lady : but I know 
 When thou hast stolen away from fauy land, 
 And in the shape of Corin sat all day, 
 Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love 
 To amorous PhiUida. Why art thou here, 
 Come from the farthest steppe of India ? 
 But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon, 
 Your buskin'd mistress and your warrior love. 
 To Theseus must be wedded, and you come 
 To give their bed joy and prosperity. 
 
 Obe. 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 ^Egle break his faith. 
 With Ariadne and Antiopa ? 
 
 TiTA. 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 whisthng wind. 
 But with thy brawls thou hast disturb 'd our sport. 
 Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, 
 As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea 
 
 [21] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Contagious fogs ; which, falUng in the land, 
 Have every pelting river made so proud. 
 That they have overborne their continents : 
 The ox hath therefore stretch 'd his yoke in vain, 
 The ploughman lost his sweat ; and the green corn 
 Hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard : 
 The fold stands empty in the drowned field, 
 And crows are fatted with the murrion flock ; 
 The nine men's morris ^ is fiU'd up with mud ; 
 And the quaint mazes ^ in the wanton green, 
 For lack of tread, are undistinguishable : 
 The human mortals want their winter here ; 
 No night is now with hymn or carol blest : 
 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 
 
 ^ A game played on three squares cut in the turf. These squares 
 become filled with mud. 
 
 ° Complicated labyrinthine figures, which boys traced upon the 
 grass. 
 
 [22] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 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. 
 
 Obe. 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, 
 
 TiTA. 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 gossip'd by my side ; 
 And sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands. 
 Marking the embarked traders on the flood ; 
 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. 
 
 Obe. How long within this wood intend you stay ? 
 
 TiTA. Perchance till after Theseus' wedding-day. 
 If you will patiently dance in our round. 
 And see our moonlight revels, go with us ; 
 If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts. 
 
 [23] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Obe. Give me that boy, and I will go with thee, 
 
 TiTA. Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away ! 
 We shall chide downright, if I longer stay. 
 
 [Exit Titania with her Train. 
 
 Obe. 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. 
 
 Puck. I remember. 
 
 Obe. That very time I saw, but thou couldst not, 
 Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 
 Cupid all arm'd : 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 
 Quench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon, 
 And the imperial votaress ^ passed on, 
 
 ^ Supposed by some to refer to Mary, Queen of Scots^ the rival of 
 Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 ^ The " imperial votaress " is Queen Elizabeth. 
 [24] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 In maiden meditation, fancy-free. 
 
 Yet mark'd 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 shew'd 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. 
 
 Puck. I '11 put a girdle round about the earth 
 In forty minutes. [Exit. 
 
 Obe. Having once this juice, 
 
 I '11 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 '11 make her render up her page to me. 
 But who comes here ? I am invisible ; 
 And I will overhear their conference. 
 
 ^ A name for the pansy, 
 
 [25] 
 
A MIDSUMMER- NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Enter Demetrius, Helena following Mm 
 
 Dem. I love thee not, therefore pursue me not. 
 Where is Lysander and fair Hermia ? 
 The one I '11 slay, the other slayeth me. 
 Thou told'st me they were stolen unto this wood ; 
 And here am I, and wode ^ within this wood, 
 Because I cannot meet my Hermia. 
 Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more. 
 
 Hel. You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant ; 
 But yet you draw not iron, for my heart 
 Is true as steel : leave you your power to draw. 
 And I shall have no power to follow you. 
 
 Dem. 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 ? 
 
 Hel. 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 foUow 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 ? 
 
 Dem. Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit ; 
 For I am sick when I do look on thee. 
 
 * Angry, enraged. 
 [26] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Hel. And I am sick when I look not on you. 
 
 Dem. 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. 
 
 Hel. Yoiu" 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 aU the world : 
 Then how can it be said I am alone, 
 When all the world is here to look on me ? 
 
 Dem. I '11 run from thee and hide me in the brakes. 
 And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts. 
 
 Hel. The wUdest hath not such a heart as you. 
 Run when you will, the story shall be changed : 
 Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase ; 
 The dove pursues the griffin ; the mild hind 
 Makes speed to catch the tiger ; bootless speed. 
 When cowardice pursues, and valour flies. 
 
 Dem. I wiU not stay thy questions ; let me go : 
 Or, if thou follow me, do not believe 
 But I shall do thee mischief in the wood. 
 
 Hel. Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field, 
 You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius 1 
 
 [27] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Your wrongs do set a scandal on ray sex : 
 
 We cannot fight for love, as men may do ; 
 
 We should be woo'd, and were not made to woo. 
 
 [Exit Dem. 
 I 'U follow thee, and make a heaven of hell. 
 To die upon the hand I love so well. [Exit. 
 
 Obe. Fare thee well, nymph : ere he do leave this grove, 
 Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love. 
 
 Re-enter Puck 
 Hast thou the flower there ? Welcome, wanderer. 
 
 Puck. Ay, there it is. 
 
 Obe. 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, 
 LuU'd in these flowers with dances and delight ; 
 And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin. 
 Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in : 
 And with the juice of this I '11 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 
 
 [28] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 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 : 
 And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow. 
 Puck. Fear not, my lord, your servant shall do so. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II — ANOTHER PART OF THE WOOD 
 Enter Titania, mth her train 
 TiTA. Come, now a roundel and a fairy song ; 
 Then, for the third part of a minute, hence ; 
 Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds ; 
 Some war with rere-mice ^ for their leathern wings. 
 To make my small elves coats ; and some keep back 
 The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots and wonders 
 At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep ; 
 Then to your offices, and let me rest. 
 
 Song 
 Fir. Fairy. You spotted snakes with double tongue, 
 Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen ; 
 Newts and bhnd-worms, do no wrong. 
 Come not near our fairy queen. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Philomel, with melody 
 Sing in our sweet lullaby ; 
 Lulla, lulla, lullaby, luUa, lulla, lullaby : 
 
 1 Bats. 
 [29] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Never harm, 
 Nor spell, nor charm, 
 Come our lovely lady nigh ; 
 So, good night, with lullaby. 
 Fir. Fairy. Weaving spiders, come not here ; 
 
 Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence ! 
 Beetles black, approach not near ; 
 Worm nor snail, do no offence. 
 
 Chorus 
 Philomel, with melody, &c. 
 
 Sec. Fairy. Hence, away ! now all is well : 
 One aloof stand sentinel. 
 
 [Exeunt Fairies. Titania sleeps. 
 
 lynter Oberon, and squeezes the Jlower on Titania''s eyelids 
 Obe. 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 shaU appear 
 When thou wakest, it is thy dear : 
 Wake when some vile thing is near. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Lysandee and Hermia 
 Lys. Fair love, you faint with wandering in the 
 wood ; 
 And to speak troth, I have forgot our way : 
 
 [30] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 We 'U rest us, Hermia, if you think it good, 
 And tarry for the comfort of the day. 
 
 Her. Be it so, Lysander : find you out a bed ; 
 For I upon this bank will rest my head. 
 
 Lys. One turf shaU serve as pillow for us both ; 
 
 One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth. 
 
 Her. Nay, good Lysander ; for my sake, my 
 dear. 
 
 Lie further off yet, do not lie so near. 
 
 Lys. O, 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 but one heart we can make of it : 
 Two bosoms interchained with an oath ; 
 So then two bosoms and a single troth. 
 Then by your side no bed-room me deny ; 
 For lying so, Hermia, I do not lie. 
 
 Hek. 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 ! 
 
 Lys. Amen, amen, to that fair prayer, say I ; 
 [31] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 And then end life when I end loyalty I 
 Here is my bed : sleep give thee all his rest I 
 
 Her. With half that wish the wisher's eyes be 
 press'd I {They sleep. 
 
 Enter Puck 
 Puck. 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. 
 Churl, upon thy eyes I throw 
 All the power this charm doth owe. 
 When thou wakest, let love forbid 
 Sleep his seat on thy eyehd : 
 So awake when I am gone ; 
 For I must now to Oberon. \Eant. 
 
 Enter Demetrius and Helena, running 
 Hel. Stay, though thou kiU me, sweet Demetrius. 
 Dem. I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me 
 
 thus. 
 Hel. O, wilt thou darkling leave me ? do not so. 
 Dem. Stay, on thy peril : I alone will go. \Exit. 
 
 [32] 
 

 SliSaS 
 
 :M 
 
 rm 
 
 •#•■ '^ 
 
 HELENA AND DEMETRIUS 
 
 TTELENA — Stay, though thou Mil me, sweet 
 
 -*- J- DemetritiJt 
 
 Act II, Scene ii 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Hel. O, I am out of breath in this fond chase I 
 The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace. 
 Happy is Hermia, wheresoe'er she hes ; 
 For she hath blessed and attractive eyes. 
 How came her eyes so bright ? Not with salt tears : 
 If so, my eyes are oftener wash'd 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. 
 
 Lys. [Awaking] And run through fire I will for thy 
 sweet sake. 
 Transparent Helena ! Nature shews art, 
 That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart. 
 Where is Demetrius ? O, how fit a word 
 Is that vile name to perish on my sword I 
 
 Hel. 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. 
 
 Lys. Content with Hermia I No ; I do repent 
 The tedious minutes I with her have spent. 
 3 [33] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHTS DREAM 
 
 Not Hermia but Helena I love : 
 Who will not change a raven for a dove ? 
 The wiU of man is by his reason sway'd 
 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 wUl, 
 And leads me to your eyes ; where I o'erlook 
 Love's stories, written in love's richest book. 
 
 Hel. Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born ? 
 When at your hands 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, 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. 
 O, that a lady, of one man refused. 
 Should of another therefore be abused ! lExit. 
 
 Lys. She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there : 
 And never mayst thou come Lysander near ! 
 For as a surfeit of the sweetest things 
 The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, 
 Or as the heresies that men do leave 
 
 [34] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Are hated most of those they did deceive, 
 So thou, my surfeit and my heresy. 
 Of all be hated, but the most of me ! 
 And, aU my powers, address your love and might 
 To honour Helen and to be her knight 1 [Exit. 
 
 Her. [Jwakijig] Help me, Lysander, help me ! do thy 
 best 
 To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast ! 
 Ay me, for pity ! what a dream was here ! 
 Lysander, look how I do quake with fear : 
 Methought a serpent eat my heart away, 
 And you sat smihng at his cruel prey. 
 Lysander ! what, removed ? Lysander ! lord I 
 What, out of hearing ? gone ? no sound, no word ? 
 Alack, where are you ? speak, an if you hear : 
 Speak, of all loves ! I swoon almost with fear. 
 No ? then I weU perceive you are not nigh : 
 Either death or you I 'U find immediately. lExit. 
 
 [35] 
 
B< 
 
 ACT THIRD — SCENE I 
 THE WOOD 
 
 TITANIA LYING ASLEEP 
 
 Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, 
 and Starveling 
 
 ►OT. Are we all met ? 
 
 QuiN. Pat, pat ; and here 's a marvellous convenient 
 place for our rehearsal. This green plot shall be our 
 stage, this hawthorn-brake our tiring-house ; and we will 
 do it in action as we will do it before the duke. 
 
 BoT. Peter Quince, — 
 
 QuiN. What sayest thou, bully Bottom ? 
 
 BoT. 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 ? 
 
 Snout. By 'r lakin,^ a parlous ^ fear. 
 
 Star. I believe we must leave the killing out, when 
 all is done. 
 
 BoT. Not a whit : I have a device to make all well. 
 
 ^ By our ladykin, — an oath referring to the Virgin. 
 ' Perilous. 
 
 [36] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Write me a prologue ; and let the prologue seem to say, 
 we wiU 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 PjTamus, but Bottom 
 the weaver : this wiU put them out of fear. 
 
 QuiN. Well, we will have such a prologue ; and it 
 shall be written in eight and six. 
 
 BoT. No, make it two more ; let it be written in eight 
 and eight. 
 
 Snout. WiU not the ladies be afeard of the lion ? 
 
 Star. I fear it, I promise you. 
 
 BoT. Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves : 
 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 't. 
 
 Snout. Therefore another prologue must tell he is 
 not a lion. 
 
 BoT. Nay, you must name his name, and half his face 
 must be seen through the lion's neck ; and he himself 
 must speak through, 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, — 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. 
 137 1 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 QuiN. Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard 
 things ; that is, to bring the moonlight into a chamber ; 
 for, you know, Pyi-amus and Thisby meet by moonlight. 
 
 Snout. Doth the moon shine that night we play our 
 play? 
 
 Box. A calendar, a calendar ! look in the almanac ; 
 find out moonshine, find out moonshine. 
 
 QuiN. Yes, it doth shine that night. 
 
 Box. 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. 
 
 QuiN. Ay ; 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. Then, there is 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. 
 
 Snoux. You can never bring in a wall. What say 
 you. Bottom ? 
 
 Box. Some man or other must present wall : and let 
 him have some plaster, or some loam, or some rough- 
 cast about him, to signify wall ; and let him hold his 
 fingers thus, and through that cranny shall Pyramus and 
 Thisby whisper. 
 
 QuiN. If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit 
 down, every mother's son, and rehearse your parts. Pyra- 
 mus, you begin : when you have spoken your speech, 
 
 [38] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 enter into that brake : and so every one according to 
 
 his cue. 
 
 Enter Puck behind 
 
 Puck. What hempen home-spuns have -we swagger- 
 ing here, 
 So near the cradle of the fairy queen ? 
 What, a play toward I I '11 be an auditor ; 
 An actor too perhaps, if I see cause. 
 
 QuiN. Speak, Pyramus. Thisby, stand forth. 
 
 BoT. Thisby, the flowers of odious savours sweet, — 
 
 QuiN. Odours, odours. 
 
 Box. odours savours 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. [Exit. 
 
 Puck. A stranger PjTamus than e'er play'd here. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Flu. Must I speak now ? 
 
 QuiN. Ay, marry, must you ; for you must under- 
 stand he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is 
 to come again. 
 
 Flu. Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue. 
 Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier. 
 
 Most brisky juvenal, and eke most lovely Jew, 
 
 As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire, 
 
 1 11 meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomb. 
 
 QuiN. " Ninus' tomb," man : why, you must not speak 
 
 [39] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 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." 
 
 Flu. O, — As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire. 
 
 Re-enter Puck, and Bottom with an ass's head 
 BoT. If I were fair, Thisby, I were only thine. 
 QuiN. O monstrous ! O strange 1 we are haunted. 
 Pray, masters ! fly, masters ! Help ! 
 
 [Exeunt Quince, Snug, Flute, Snout, and Starveling. 
 Puck. I '11 follow you, I '11 lead you about a round, 
 Through bog, through bush, through brake, through 
 brier : 
 Sometime a horse I '11 be, sometime a hound, 
 
 A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire ; 
 And neigh, and bark, and gi'unt, and roar, and burn. 
 Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fii'e, at every turn. [Exit. 
 Box. Why do they run away ? this is a knavery of 
 them to make me afeard. 
 
 Re-enter Snout 
 
 Snout. O Bottom, thou art changed I what do I see 
 on thee ? 
 
 Box. What do you see ? you see an ass-head of your 
 own, do you ? [Exit Snout. 
 
 Re-enter Quince 
 
 QuiN. Bless thee, Bottom ! bless thee I thou art 
 
 translated, r .r. -, [Exit. 
 
 [ 40 ] 
 
BOTTOM WITH AN ASS'S HEAD 
 
 Q 
 
 UINCE — Bless thee. Bottom ! bless thee ! thou art 
 
 translated. Act III, Scene i 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 BoT. 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. \_Sings. 
 
 The ousel cock so black of hue, 
 
 With orange-tawny bill, 
 The throstle with his note so true, 
 
 The wren with little quiU ; * 
 
 Tit A. [AwaMng] What angel wakes me from my 
 flowery bed ? 
 
 Box. [Sings] 
 
 The finch, the sparrow, and the lark. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 TiTA. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again : 
 Mine ear is much enamour 'd 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. 
 
 Box. Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason 
 
 * Musical pipe. 
 [41] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 for that : and yet, to say the truth, reason and love 
 keep httle company together now-a-days ; the more 
 the pity, that some honest neighbours will not make 
 them friends. Nay, I can gleek^ upon occasion. 
 
 TiTA. Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful. 
 
 BoT. Not so, neither : but if I had wit enough to get 
 out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn. 
 
 TiTA. 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 '11 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 I Cobweb ! Moth 1 and Mustardseed ! 
 
 Enter Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustardseed 
 
 First Fai. Ready. 
 
 Sec. Fai. And I. 
 
 Third Fax. And I. 
 
 Fourth Fai. And I. 
 
 All. Where shall we go ? 
 
 TiTA. Be kind and courteous to this gentleman ; 
 
 ' Jest. 
 
 [42] 
 
1 
 
 M 
 
 1 
 
 A 
 
 
 ;-Syy?i«^,v"- 
 
 r**'^ 
 
 .■■'■—-- 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■I'K 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 - fli 
 
 T I T A N I A 
 
 ^T^^ITANIA [Aivakening] — What angel walces me 
 _£_ from my fiowery hed? Act m, Scene i 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Hop in his walks, and gambol in his eyes ; 
 Feed him with apricocks and dewberries, 
 With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries ; 
 The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees, 
 And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs, 
 And hght 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. 
 
 First Fai. Hail, mortal ! 
 
 Sec. Fai. Hail ! 
 
 Third Fai. Hail ! 
 
 Fourth Fai. Hail ! 
 
 BoT. I cry your worships mercy, heartily : I beseech 
 your worship's name. 
 
 Cob. Cobweb. 
 
 BoT. 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 ? 
 
 Peas. Peaseblossom. 
 
 BoT. I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, 
 your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. 
 Good Master Peaseblossom, I shaU desire you of more 
 acquaintance too. Your name, I beseech you, sir ? 
 
 Mus. Mustardseed. 
 
 BoT. Good Master Mustardseed, I know your pa- 
 
 [43] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 tience well : that same cowardly, giant-like ox-beef hath 
 devoured many a gentleman of your house : I promise 
 you your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now. I de- 
 sire your more acquaintance, good Master Mustardseed. 
 
 TiTA. 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 love's tongue, bring him silently. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II — ANOTHER PART OF THE WOOD 
 
 Enter Oberon 
 
 Obe. I wonder if Titania be awaked ; 
 Then, what it was that next came in her eye. 
 Which she must dote on in extremity. 
 
 Enter Puck 
 Here comes my messenger. 
 
 How now, mad spirit I 
 What night-rule ^ now about this haunted grove ? 
 
 Puck. My mistress with a monster is in love. 
 Near to her close and consecrated bower, 
 While she was in her dull and sleeping hour, 
 A crew of patches, rude mechanicals. 
 That work for bread upon Athenian stalls, 
 Were met together to rehearse a play, 
 
 ^ Night revelry. 
 [44] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Intended for great Theseus' nuptial-day. 
 
 The shallowest thick-skin of that barren sort, 
 
 Who Pyramus presented, in their sport 
 
 Forsook his scene, and enter'd in a brake : 
 
 When I did him at this advantage take, 
 
 An ass's nole I fixed on his head : 
 
 Anon his Thisbe must be answered. 
 
 And forth my mimic comes. When they him spy. 
 
 As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye. 
 
 Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort, 
 
 Rising and cawing at the gun's report. 
 
 Sever themselves and madly sweep the sky. 
 
 So, at his sight, away his fellows fly ; 
 
 And, at our stamp, here o'er and o'er one falls ; 
 
 He murder cries, and help from Athens calls. 
 
 Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears thus strong, 
 
 Made senseless things begin to do them wrong ; 
 
 For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch ; 
 
 Some sleeves, some hats, from yielders all things catch. 
 
 I led them on in this distracted fear. 
 
 And left sweet Pyramus translated there : 
 
 When in that moment, so it came to pass, 
 
 Titania waked, and straightway loved an ass. 
 
 Obe. This falls out better than I could devise. 
 But hast thou yet latch'd the Athenian's eyes 
 With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do ? 
 
 Puck. I took him sleeping, — that is finish 'd too, — 
 [45] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 And the Athenian woman by his side ; 
 That, when he waked, of force she must be eyed. 
 Enter Hermia and Demetrius 
 
 Obe. Stand close : this is the same Athenian. 
 
 Puck. This is the woman, but not this the man. 
 
 Dem. O, why rebuke you him that loves you so ? 
 Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe. 
 
 Her. Now 1 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 '11 believe as soon 
 This whole earth may be bored, and that the moon 
 May through the centre creep, and so displease 
 Her brother's noontide with the Antipodes. 
 It cannot be but thou hast murder 'd him ; 
 So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim. 
 
 Dem. So should the murder 'd 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. 
 
 Her. What 's this to my Lysander? where is he ? 
 Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me ? 
 
 Dem. I had rather give his carcass to my hounds. 
 
 [46] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Her. Out, dog ! out, cur I thou drivest me past the 
 bounds 
 Of maiden's patience. Hast thou slain him, then ? 
 Henceforth be never number 'd among men I 
 O, once tell true, tell true, even for my sake ! 
 Durst thou have look'd upon him being awake. 
 And hast thou kiU'd him sleeping ? O brave touch I 
 Could not a vv^orm, an adder, do so much ? 
 An adder did it ; for with doubler tongue 
 Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung. 
 
 Dem. 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 teU. 
 
 Her. I pray thee, teU me then that he is well, 
 
 Dem. An if I could, what should I get therefore ? 
 
 Her. 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. i^Exit. 
 
 Dem. There is no following her in this fierce vein: 
 Here therefore for a while I wiU remain. 
 So sorrow's heaviness doth heavier grow 
 For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe ; 
 Which now in some slight measure it vdU pay. 
 If for his tender here I make some stay. 
 
 [_Lies down and sleeps. 
 
 Obe. What hast thou done? thou hast mistaken 
 
 quite, 
 
 [47] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 And laid the love-juice on some true-love's sight : 
 Of thy misprision must perforce ensue 
 Some true love turn'd, and not a false turn'd true. 
 Puck. Then fate o'er-rules, that, one man holding 
 troth, 
 A million fail, confounding oath on oath. 
 
 Obe. About the wood go swifter than the wind. 
 And Helena of Athens look thou find : 
 AU 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 '11 charm his eyes against she do appear. 
 
 Puck. I go, 1 go ; look how I go, 
 Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow. lExit. 
 
 Obe. 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. 
 
 Re-enter Puck 
 
 Puck. Captain of our fairy band, 
 Helena is here at hand ; 
 And the youth, mistook by me, 
 [48] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Pleading for a lover's fee. 
 
 Shall we their fond pageant see ? 
 
 Lord, what fools these mortals be 1 
 Obe. Stand aside : the noise they make 
 
 Will cause Demetrius to awake. 
 Puck. Then wiU two at once woo one ; 
 
 That must needs be sport alone ; 
 
 And those things do best please me 
 
 That befal preposterously. 
 
 Enter Lysandek and Helena 
 
 Lys. 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 aU truth appears. 
 How can these things in me seem scorn to you, 
 Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true ? 
 
 Hel. You do advance your cunning more and 
 more. 
 
 When truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray ! 
 These vows are Hermia's : wiU you give her o'er ? 
 
 Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh : 
 Your vows to her and me, put in two scales. 
 Will even weigh ; and both as light as tales. 
 
 Lys. I had no judgement when to her I swore. 
 
 Hel. Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o'er. 
 * [49] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Lys. Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you. 
 
 Dem. [Awaking] O Helen, goddess, nymph, perfect, 
 divine ! 
 To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne ? 
 Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show 
 Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow ! 
 That pure congealed white, high Taurus' snow, 
 Fann'd with the eastern wind, turns to a crow 
 When thou hold'st up thy hand : O, let me kiss 
 This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss ! 
 
 Hel. O spite ! O hell ! I see you all are bent 
 To set against me for your merriment : 
 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 ? 
 If you were men, as men you are in show. 
 You would not use a gentle lady so ; 
 To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts. 
 When I am sure you hate me with your hearts. 
 You both are rivals, and love Hermia ; 
 And now both rivals, to mock Helena : 
 A trim exploit, a manly enterprise. 
 To conjure tears up in a poor maid's eyes 
 With your derision ! none of noble sort 
 Would so offend a virgin, and extort 
 A poor soul's patience, all to make you sport. 
 
 [50] 
 
HELENA, DEMETRIUS, AND LYSANDER 
 
 H 
 
 ELENA — O spite ! hell ! I see you all are bent 
 To set against me for your merriment. Act iii, Scene a 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Lys. You are unkind, Demetrius ; be not so ; 
 For you love Hermia ; this you know I know : 
 And here, with all good wUl, with all my heart, 
 In Hermia's love I yield you up my part ; 
 And yours of Helena to me bequeath. 
 Whom I do love, and wiU do tiU my death. 
 
 Hel. Never did mockers waste more idle breath. 
 
 Dem. Lysander, keep thy Hermia ; I wiU none : 
 If e'er 1 loved her, all that love is gone. 
 My heart to her but as guest-wise sojourn'd, 
 And now to Helen is it home return'd, 
 There to remain. 
 
 Lys. Helen, it is not so. 
 
 Dem. Disparage not the faith thou dost not know, 
 Lest, to thy peril, thou aby it dear. 
 Look, where thy love comes ; yonder is thy dear. 
 
 Re-enter Heemia 
 
 Her. Dark night, that from the eye his function takes. 
 The ear more quick of apprehension makes ; 
 Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense, 
 It pays the hearing double recompence. 
 Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found ; 
 Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound. 
 But why unkindly didst thou leave me so ? 
 
 Lys. Why should he stay, whom love doth press 
 to go ? 
 
 [51] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Her. What love could press Lysander from my side ? 
 
 Lys. 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 bare thee made me leave thee so ? 
 
 Her. You speak not as you think : it cannot be. 
 
 Hel. Lo, she is one of this confederacy ! 
 Now I perceive they have conjoin'd 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 ? 
 Is all the counsel that we two have shared. 
 The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent. 
 When we have chid the hasty-footed time 
 For parting us, — O, is all forgot ? 
 All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence ? 
 We, Hermia, 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, 
 
 * Circles of fire, stars. 
 [52] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 But yet an union in partition ; 
 
 Two lovely berries moulded on one stem ; 
 
 So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart ; 
 
 Two of the first, like coats in heraldry, 
 
 Due but to one, and crowned with one crest. 
 
 And will you rent our ancient love asunder, 
 
 To join with men in scorning your poor friend ? 
 
 It is not friendly, 't is not maidenly : 
 
 Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it, 
 
 Though I alone do feel the injury. 
 
 Her. I am amazed at your passionate words. 
 I scorn you not : it seems that you scorn me. 
 
 Hel. Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn. 
 To foUow 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. 
 
 Her. I understand not what you mean by this. 
 [53] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Hel. Ay, 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 earned, shall be chronicled. 
 If you have any pity, grace, or manners, 
 You would not make me such an argument. 
 But fare ye well : 't is partly my own fault ; 
 Which death or absence soon shall remedy. 
 
 Lys. Stay, gentle Helena ; hear my excuse : 
 My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena ! 
 
 Hel. O excellent ! 
 
 Her. Sweet, do not scorn her so. 
 
 Dem. If she cannot entoeat, I can compel. 
 
 Lys. Thou canst compel no more than she entreat : 
 Thy threats have no more strength than her weak 
 
 prayers. 
 Helen, I love thee ; by my hfe, I do : 
 1 swear by that which I wiU lose for thee. 
 To prove him false that says I love thee not. 
 
 Dem. I say I love thee more than he can do. 
 
 Lys. If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too. 
 
 Dem. Quick, come 1 
 
 Her. Lysander, whereto tends all this ? 
 
 Lys. Away, you Ethiope 1 
 
 Dem. No, no ; he 'U . . . 
 
 Seem to break loose ; take on as you would follow, 
 But yet come not : you are a tame man, go I 
 
 [54] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Lys. Hang off, thou cat, thou burr I vile thing, let 
 
 loose, 
 Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent ! 
 Her. Why are you grown so rude ? what change is 
 this? 
 Sweet love, — 
 
 Lys. Thy love I out, tawny Tartar, out ! 
 Out, loathed medicine ! hated potion, hence ! 
 Her. Do you not jest ? 
 
 Hel. Yes, sooth ; and so do you. 
 
 Lys. Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee. 
 Dem. I would I had your bond, for I perceive 
 A weak bond holds you : I 'U not trust your word. 
 Lys. What, should I hurt her, strike her, kiU her 
 dead ? 
 Although I hate her, I '11 not harm her so. 
 
 Her. What, can you do me greater harm than 
 hate ? 
 Hate me 1 wherefore ? O 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, — O, the gods forbid I — 
 In earnest, shall I say ? 
 
 Lys. Ay, by my life ; 
 
 And never did desire to see thee more. 
 
 [55] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Therefore be out of hope, of question, of doubt ; 
 Be certain, nothing truer ; 'tis no jest 
 That 1 do hate thee, and love Helena. 
 
 Her. O me! you juggler ! you canker-blossom! 
 You thief of love ! what, have you come by night 
 And stolen my love's heart from him ? 
 
 Hel. Fine, i' faith ! 
 
 Have you no modesty, no maiden shame. 
 No touch of bashfulness ? What, will you tear 
 Impatient answers from my gentle tongue ? 
 Fie, fie ! you counterfeit, you puppet, you ! 
 
 Her. Puppet ? why so ? ay, 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 prevail'd with him. 
 And are you grown so high in his esteem, 
 Because I am so dwarfish and so low ? 
 How low am I, thou painted maypole ? speak ; 
 How low am I ? I am not yet so low 
 But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes. 
 
 Hel. I pray you, though you mock me, gentle- 
 men. 
 Let her not hurt me : I was never curst ; 
 I have no gift at all in shrewishness ; 
 I am a right maid for my cowardice : 
 Let her not strike me. You perhaps may think, 
 
 [56] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Because she is something lower than myself. 
 That I can match her. 
 
 Her. Lower ! hark, again. 
 
 Hel. Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me 
 I evermore did love you, Hermia, 
 Did ever keep your counsels, never wrong'd you ; 
 Save that, in love unto Demetrius, 
 I told him of your stealth unto this wood. 
 He foUow'd you ; for love I foUow'd him ; 
 But he hath chid me hence, and threaten'd me 
 To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kiU me too : 
 And now, so you wiU let me quiet go. 
 To Athens will I bear my foEy back, 
 And follow you no further : let me go : 
 You see how simple and how fond I am. 
 
 Her. Why, get you gone : who is 't that hinders you ? 
 
 Hel. a foolish heart, that I leave here behind. 
 
 Her. What, with Lysander ? 
 
 Hel. With Demetrius. 
 
 Lys. Be not afraid ; she shall not harm thee, Helena. 
 
 Dem. No, sir, she shall not, though you take her part. 
 
 Hel. O, 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. 
 
 Her. Little again ! nothing but low and little I 
 Why will you suffer her to flout me thus ? 
 Let me come to her. 
 
 [57] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Lys. Get you gone, you dwarf ; 
 
 You minimus, of hindering knot-grass made ; 
 You bead, you acorn, 
 
 Dem. You are too officious 
 
 In her behalf that scorns your services. 
 Let her alone : speak not of Helena ; 
 Take not her part ; for, if thou dost intend 
 Never so little show of love to her. 
 Thou shalt aby it. 
 
 Lys. Now she holds me not ; 
 
 Now follow, if thou darest, to try whose right, 
 Of thine or mine, is most in Helena. 
 
 Dem. FoUow I nay, I '11 go with thee, cheek by jole. 
 
 [Exeunt Lysander and Demetrius. 
 
 Her. You, mistress, all this coil is 'long of you : 
 Nay, go not back. 
 
 Hel. I will not trust you, I, 
 
 Nor longer stay in your curst company. 
 Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray. 
 My legs are longer though, to run away. [Ejrlt. 
 
 Her. I am amazed, and know not what to say. [Exit. 
 
 Obe. This is thy negligence : still thou mistakest. 
 Or else committ'st thy knaveries wilfully. 
 
 Puck. Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook. 
 Did not you teU me I should know the man 
 By the Athenian garments he had on ? 
 And so far blameless proves my enterprise, 
 
 [58] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 That I have 'nointed an Athenian's eyes ; 
 And so far am I glad it so did sort, 
 As this their jangling I esteem a sport. 
 
 Obe. 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 '11 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. 
 
 [59] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Puck. My fairy lord, this must be done with haste, 
 For night's swift dragons cut the clouds fuU fast, 
 And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger ; 
 At whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and there, 
 Troop home to churchyards : damned spirits all. 
 That in crossways and floods have burial. 
 They wilfully themselves exile from light, 
 And must for aye consort with black-brow'd night. 
 
 Obe. But we are spirits of another sort : 
 I with the morning's love have oft made sport ; 
 And, like a forester, the groves may tread. 
 Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red. 
 Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams, 
 Turns into yeUow gold his salt green streams. 
 But, notwithstanding, haste ; make no delay : 
 We may effect this business yet ere day. lExit. 
 
 Puck. Up and down, up and down, 
 
 I will lead them up and down : 
 
 I am fear'd in field and town : 
 
 Goblin, lead them up and down. 
 Here comes one. 
 
 Re-enter Lysander 
 
 L.YS. Where art thou, proud Demetrius ? speak thou 
 
 now. 
 Puck. Here, villain ; drawn and ready. Where art 
 
 thou? 
 Lys. I will be with thee straight. 
 [60] 
 
LYSANDER SEEKS DEMETRIUS 
 
 L 
 
 YSANDER — Where art thou, proud Demetrius f 
 
 Act III, Scene ii 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Puck. Follow me, then, 
 
 To plainer ground. [_Exit Lysander, as following the voice. 
 
 Re-enter Demetrius 
 
 Dem. Lysander ! speak again : 
 
 Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled ? 
 Speak ! In some bush ? Where dost thou hide thy 
 head ? 
 Puck, Thou coward, art thou bragging to the stars. 
 Telling the bushes that thou look'st for wars, 
 And wilt not come ? Come, recreant ; come, thou 
 
 child ; 
 1 'U whip thee with a rod : he is defiled 
 That draws a sword on thee. 
 
 Dem. Yea, art thou there ? 
 
 Puck. Follow my voice : we '11 try no manhood here. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 Re-enter Lysander 
 
 Lys. He goes before me and still dares me on : 
 When I come where he calls, then he is gone. 
 The villain is much lighter-heel'd than I : 
 I follow'd fast, but faster he did fly ; 
 That fallen am I in dark uneven way. 
 And here will rest me. [Lies down.'] Come, thou gentle 
 
 day! 
 For if but once thou show me thy grey light, 
 I '11 find Demetrius, and revenge this spite. [Sleeps. 
 
 [61] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Re-enter Puck and Demetrius 
 Puck. Ho, ho, ho ! Coward, why comest thou not ? 
 Dem. 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 ? 
 
 Puck. Come hither : I am here. 
 
 Dem. 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. 
 By day's approach look to be visited. 
 
 [Lies down and sleeps. 
 Re-enter Helena 
 Hel. O weary night, O 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 cornpany detest : 
 And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye. 
 Steal me awhile from mine own company. 
 
 [Lies down and sleeps. 
 Puck. Yet but three ? Come one more ; 
 Two of both kinds makes up four. 
 Here she comes, curst and sad : 
 Cupid is a knavish lad. 
 Thus to make poor females mad. 
 [62] 
 
HERMIA 
 
 H 
 
 ERMIA — Never so toeary, never so in woe ; 
 
 Bedabbled with dew, and torn with briers ; 
 I can nofiiHher crawl, no further go. 
 
 Act Illj Scene ii 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Re-enter Hermia 
 Her. Never so weary, never so in woe ; 
 
 Bedabbled with the dew, and torn with briers ; 
 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 ! 
 
 [Lies down and sleeps. 
 Puck. On the ground 
 
 Sleep sound : 
 I 'U apply 
 To your eye, 
 Gentle lover, remedy. 
 
 [^Sqtieezinff the Juice on Lysander's eye. 
 When thou wakest. 
 Thou takest 
 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. 
 
 [_Exit. 
 
 [63] 
 
"Nj^^ / \— ^ ^^^_a>^ ^^^•**- 
 
 ACT FOURTH — SCENE I — THE SAME 
 
 LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS, HELENA, AND 
 HERMIA, LYING ASLEEP 
 
 Enter Titania and Bottom ; Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, Mustaed- 
 SEED, and other Fairies attending ; Oberon behind unseen 
 
 M. IT. Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed, 
 WhUe I thy amiable cheeks do coy,^ 
 And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head. 
 And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. 
 
 BoT. Where 's Peaseblossom ? 
 
 Peas. Ready. 
 
 BoT. Scratch my head, Peaseblossom. Where 's 
 Mounsieur Cobweb ? 
 
 Cob. Ready. 
 
 BoT. Mounsieur Cobweb, good mounsieur, get you 
 your weapons in your hand, and kiU me a red-hipped 
 humble-bee on the top of a thistle ; and, good mounsieur, 
 bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too 
 much in the action, mounsieur ; and, good mounsieur, 
 have a care the honey-bag break not ; I would be loth 
 
 ■* Caress. 
 [64] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 to have you overflown with a honey-bag, signior. 
 Where 's Mounsieur Mustardseed ? 
 
 Mus. Ready. 
 
 BoT, Give me your neaf,^ Mounsieur Mustardseed. 
 Pray you, leave your courtesy, good mounsieur. 
 
 Mus. What 's your wUl ? 
 
 BoT. Nothing, good mounsieur, but to help Cavalery 
 Cobweb to scratch. I must to the barber's, mounsieur ; 
 for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face ; and 
 I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I 
 must scratch. 
 
 TiTA. What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet 
 love ? 
 
 Box. I have a reasonable good ear in music. Let 's 
 have the tongs and the bones. 
 
 TiTA. Or say, sweet love, what thou desirest to eat. 
 
 BoT. 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. 
 
 TiTA. I have a venturous fairy that shall seek 
 The squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee new nuts. 
 
 Box. I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas. 
 But, I pray you, let none of your people stir me : I have 
 an exposition of sleep come upon me. 
 
 TiXA. Sleep thou, and 1 will wind thee in my arms. 
 Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away. [Exeunt Fairks. 
 
 * Fist or hand. 
 5 [65] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle 
 
 Gently entwist ; the female ivy so 
 
 Enrings the barky fingers of the elm. 
 
 O, how I love thee ! how I dote on thee ! [TT^ey sleep. 
 
 Enter Puck 
 
 Obe. [Advancing} Welcome, good Robin. See'st thou 
 this sweet sight ? 
 Her dotage now I do begin to pity : 
 For, meeting her of late behind the wood, 
 Seeking sweet favours 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, hke 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 begg'd 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 wiU undo 
 This hateful imperfection of her eyes : 
 And, gentle Puck, take this transformed scalp 
 From off" the head of this Athenian swain ; 
 
 [66] 
 

 ' \ 
 
 TITANIA AND BOTTOM 
 
 r M lITANIA — Or nay, sweet love, what thoic desirest to eat. 
 
 m Act IV, Scene i 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 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 wast wont to be ; 
 See as thou wast 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. 
 
 TiTA. My Oberon ! what visions have I seen 1 
 Methought I was enamour 'd of an ass. 
 Obe. There Ues your love. 
 
 TiTA. How came these things to pass ? 
 
 O, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now I 
 KObe. Silence awhile. Robin, take off this head. 
 Titania, music call ; and strike more dead 
 Than common sleep of all these five the sense. 
 >/ TiTA. Music, ho ! music, such as charmeth sleep ! 
 
 [Mtisic, still. 
 
 Puck. Now, when thou wakest, with thine own fool's 
 
 eyes peep. 
 Obe. 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 to-morrow midnight solemnly 
 
 [67] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 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. 
 Puck. Fairy king, attend, and mark : 
 
 I do hear the morning lark. 
 Obe. Then, my queen, in silence sad. 
 Trip we after night's shade : 
 We the globe can compass soon. 
 Swifter than the wandering moon. 
 TiTA. 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. [Exeunt. 
 
 [Horns winded within. 
 
 Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus, and train 
 
 The. Go, one of you, find out the forester ; 
 For now our observation is perform 'd ; 
 And since we have the vaward of the day. 
 My love shall hear the music of my hounds. 
 Uncouple in the western valley ; let them go : 
 Dispatch, I say, and find the forester. [Exit an attend. 
 
 We will, fair queen, up to the mountain's top, 
 And mark the musical confusion 
 Of hounds and echo in conjunction. 
 
 [68] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Hip. I was with Hercules and Cadmus once. 
 When in a wood of Crete they bay'd the bear 
 With hounds of Sparta : never did I hear 
 Such gallant chiding ; for, besides the groves, 
 The skies, the fountains, every region near 
 Seem'd aU one mutual cry : I never heard 
 So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. 
 
 The. My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, 
 So flew'd, so sanded ; and their heads are hung 
 With ears that sweep away the morning dew ; 
 Crook-knee'd, and dew-lapp'd like Thessalian bulls ; 
 Slow in pursuit, but match 'd in mouth like bells. 
 Each under each. A cry more tuneable 
 Was never hoUa'd to, nor cheer 'd with horn, 
 In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly : 
 Judge when you hear. But, soft! what nymphs are 
 these ? 
 
 Ege. My lord, this is my daughter here asleep ; 
 And this, Lysander ; this Demetrius is ; 
 This Helena, old Nedar's Helena : 
 I wonder of their being here together. 
 
 The. No doubt they rose up early to observe 
 The rite of May ; and, hearing our intent, 
 Came here in grace of our solemnity. 
 But speak, Egeus ; is not this the day 
 That Hermia should give answer of her choice ? 
 
 Ege. It is, my lord. 
 
 [69] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 The. Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with their 
 horns. [Horns and shmit within. Lys., Dem., 
 
 Hel., and Her., wake and start up. 
 Good morrow, Mends. Saint Valentine is past : 
 Begin these wood-birds but to couple now ? 
 
 Lys. Pardon, my lord. 
 
 The. I pray you aU, 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 ? 
 
 Lys. My lord, I shall reply amazedly, 
 Half sleep, half waking : but as yet, I swear, ' 
 I cannot 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 with Hermia hither : our intent 
 Was to be gone from Athens, where we might, 
 Without the peril of the Athenian law. 
 
 Ege. 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. 
 
 Dem. My lord, fair Helen told me of their stealth. 
 Of this their purpose hither to this wood ; 
 
 [70] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 And I in fury hither follow'd 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 betroth'd ere I saw Hermia : 
 
 But, like in 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. 
 
 The. Fair lovers, you are fortunately met : 
 Of this discourse we more will hear anon. 
 Egeus, I wiU overbear your will ; 
 For in the temple, by and by, with us 
 These couples shall eternally be knit : 
 And, for the morning now is something worn. 
 Our purposed hunting shall be set aside. 
 Away with us to Athens 1 three and three. 
 We '11 hold a feast in great solemnity. 
 Come, Hippolyta. {^Exeunt The., Hip., Ege., and train. 
 
 Dem. These things seem small and undistinguishable, 
 Like far-ofiF mountains turned into clouds. 
 
 [71] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Her. Methinks I see these things with parted eye. 
 When every thing seems double. 
 
 Hel. So methinks : 
 
 And I have found Demetrius hke a jewel, 
 Mine own, and not mine own. 
 
 Dem. Are you sure 
 
 That we are awake ? It seems to me 
 That yet we sleep, we dream. Do not you think 
 The Duke was here, and bid us follow him ? 
 
 Her. Yea ; and my father. 
 
 Hel. And Hippolyta. 
 
 Lys. And he did bid us foUow to the temple. 
 
 Dem. Why, then, we are awake : let 's foUow 
 him ; 
 And by the way let us recount our dreams. [Exewit. 
 
 BoT. \_Jwaking] When my cue comes, caU 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 my 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 me- 
 thought I had, — but man is but a patched fool, if he 
 win offer to say what methought I had. The eye of 
 man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, 
 
 [72] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 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. lExU. 
 
 SCENE II — ATHENS 
 QUINCE'S HOUSE 
 
 Enter Quince, Flute, Snout, and Starveling 
 
 QuiN. Have you sent to Bottom's house ? is he come 
 home yet ? 
 
 Star. He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt he is 
 transported. 
 
 Flu. If he come not, then the play is marred : it goes 
 not forward, doth it ? 
 
 QuiN. It is not possible : you have not a man in all 
 Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he. 
 
 Flu. No, he hath simply the best wit of any handi- 
 craft man in Athens. 
 
 QuiN. Yea, and the best person too ; and he is a very 
 paramour for a sweet voice. 
 
 Flu. You must say " paragon " : a paramour is, God 
 bless us, a thing of naught. 
 
 [73] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Enter Sncg 
 
 Snug. 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. 
 
 Flu. O sweet bully Bottom ! Thus hath he lost six- 
 pence a day during his life ; he could not have scaped 
 sixpence a day : an the Duke had not given him six- 
 pence a day for playing Pyramus, I '11 be hanged ; he 
 would have deserved it : sixpence a day in Pyramus, 
 or nothing. 
 
 Enter Bottom 
 
 BoT. Where are these lads ? where are these hearts ? 
 
 QuiN. Bottom ! O most courageous day I O most 
 happy hour ! 
 
 BoT. Masters, I am to discourse wonders : but ask 
 me not what ; for if I tell you, I am no true Athenian. 
 I will teU you every thing, right as it fell out. 
 
 QuiN. Let us hear, sweet Bottom. 
 
 BoT. Not a word of me. AU that I will teU you is, 
 that the Duke hath 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 the 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 
 
 [74] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 they shall hang out for the Uon's claws. And, most 
 dear actors, eat no onions nor garUc, for we are to utter 
 sweet breath; and I do not doubt but to hear them 
 say, it is a sweet comedy. No more words : away ! go 
 away ! ^Exeunt. 
 
 [75] 
 
Hi 
 
 ACT FIFTH — SCENE I 
 ATHENS 
 
 THE PALACE OF 
 THESEUS 
 
 Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philos- 
 TEATE, Lords, and Attendants 
 
 .IP. 'T is strange, my Theseus, that these lovers 
 speak of. 
 The. 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 roUing, 
 Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven ; 
 And as imagination bodies forth 
 The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
 
 ^ The brow of a gypsy. Gypsy is a corruption of " Egyptians." 
 [76] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Turns them to shapes, and gives to au-y 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 I 
 
 Hip. 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. 
 
 The. Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth. 
 
 Enter Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, and Helena 
 
 Joy, gentle friends ! joy and fresh days of love 
 Accompany your hearts ! 
 
 Lys. More than to us 
 
 Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed ! 
 
 The. Come now ; what masques, what dances shall 
 we have. 
 To wear away this long age of three hours 
 Between our after-supper and bed-time ? 
 Where is oiu- usual manager of mirth ? 
 What revels are in hand ? Is there no play. 
 To ease the anguish of a torturing hour ? 
 Call PhUostrate. 
 
 [77] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Phil. Here, mighty Theseus. 
 
 The. Say, what abridgement have you for this 
 evening ? 
 What masque ? what music ? How shall we beguile 
 The lazy time, if not with some delight ? 
 
 Phil. There is a brief how many sports are 
 ripe : 
 Make choice of which your highness will see first. 
 
 [Giving a paper. 
 
 The. [reads'] The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung 
 By an Athenian eunuch to the harp. 
 We '11 none of that : that have I told my love, 
 In glory of my kinsman Hercules. 
 [Reads] The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals, 
 Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage. 
 That is an old device ; and it was play'd 
 When I from Thebes came last a conqueror. 
 [Reads] 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. 
 [Reads] 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 shaU we find the concord of this discord ? 
 
 Phil. A play there is, my lord, some ten words long, 
 [78] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 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. 
 
 The. What are they that do play it ? 
 
 Phil. Hard-handed men, that work in Athens 
 here. 
 Which never labour 'd in their minds till now ; 
 And now have toil'd their unbreathed memories 
 With this same play, against your nuptial. 
 
 The. And we will hear it. 
 
 Phil. 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 stretch'd and conn'd with cruel pain, 
 To do you service. 
 
 The. I will hear that play ; 
 
 For never any thing can be amiss. 
 When simpleness and duty tender it. 
 Go, bring them in : and take your places, ladies. 
 
 [Eocit Philostrate. 
 [79] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Hip. I love not to see wretchedness o'ereharged, 
 And duty in his service perishing. 
 
 The. Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such 
 thing. 
 
 Hip. He says they can do nothing in this kind. 
 
 The. 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 practised 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 from the rattling tongue 
 Of saucy and audacious eloquence. 
 Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity 
 In least speak most, to my capacity. 
 
 Re-enter Philosteate 
 
 Phil,. So please your Grace, the Prologue is address 'd. 
 
 The. Let him approach. [Flourish of trumpets. 
 
 [80] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Enter Quince Jhr the Prologue 
 
 Pro. 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. 
 The. This fellow doth not stand upon points. 
 Lys. He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt ; he 
 knows not the stop. A good moral, my lord : it is not 
 enough to speak, but to speak true. 
 
 Hip. Indeed he hath played on his prologue Uke a 
 child on a recorder ; a sound, but not in government. 
 
 The. His speech was like a tangled chain ; nothing 
 impaired, but all disordered. Who is next ? 
 
 Enter Pyramus and Thisbe, Wall, Moonshine, and Lion 
 
 Pro. Gentles, perchance you wonder at this 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 WalFs chink, poor souls, they are content 
 To whisper. At the which let no man wonder. 
 6 [81] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 This man, with lanthorn, 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 hight 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 broach'd 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. 
 [Exeu7it Prologue, Pyramus, Thisbe, Lion, and Moonshine. 
 The. I wonder if the lion be to speak. 
 Dem. No wonder, my lord : one lion may, when many 
 asses do. 
 
 TVAIiL. In this same interlude it doth befall 
 
 That I, one Snout by name, present a wall ; 
 And such a wall, as I would 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 : 
 [82] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 And this the cranny is, right and sinister, 
 Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper. 
 
 The. Would you desire lime and hair to speak 
 
 better ? 
 Dem. It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard 
 discourse, my lord. 
 The. Pyramus draws near the wall : silence ! 
 
 Re-enter Pykamus 
 
 Pyr. O grim-look'd night ! O night with hue so black ! 
 
 night, which ever art when day is not ! 
 night, O night ! alack, alack, alack, 
 
 1 fear my Thisby's promise is forgot ! 
 And thou, O wall, O sweet, O lovely wall. 
 
 That stand'st between her father''s ground and mine ! 
 Thou wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall. 
 
 Show me thy chink, to blink through with mine eyne ! 
 
 [ Wall holds up hisjingers. 
 Thanks, courteous wall : Jove shield thee well for this ! 
 
 But what see I ? No Thisby do I see. 
 O wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss ! 
 
 Cursed be thy stones for thus deceiving me ! 
 
 The. The waU, methinks, being sensible, should curse 
 again. 
 
 Pyr. 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. Yonder she comes. 
 
 [83] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Re-enter Thisbe 
 This. O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans. 
 For parting my fair Pyramus and me ! 
 My cherry lips have often kiss'd thy stones, 
 
 Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee^ 
 Pyr. I see a voice : now will I to the chink, 
 To spy an I can hear my Thisby's face. 
 Thisby ! 
 
 This. My love thou art, my love I think. 
 Pyr. Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover's grace ; 
 And, like Limander, am I trusty still. 
 
 This. And I like Helen, till the Fates me kill. 
 
 Pyr. Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true. 
 
 This. As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you. 
 
 Pyr. O, kiss me through the hole of this vile wall ! 
 
 This. I kiss the wall's hole, not your lips at all. 
 
 Pyr. Wilt thou at Ninny's tomb meet me straightway ? 
 
 This. 'Tide life, 'tide death, I come without delay. 
 
 [Exeunt Pyramus and Thisbe. 
 Wall. Thus have I, wall, my part discharged so ; 
 And, being done, thus wall away doth go. [Exit. 
 
 The. Now is the mural down between the two 
 neighbours. 
 
 Dem. No remedy, my lord, when waUs are so wilful 
 to hear without warning. 
 
 Hip. This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard. 
 
 The. The best in this kind are but shadows ; and 
 the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them. 
 
 [84] 
 
s'^^-t, (WP' ^' 
 
 „ 
 
 
 ■-: 
 
 .-'•- 
 
 ^^ 
 
 |./^ 
 
 f 
 
 - s4^. 
 
 -- 
 
 ,^/m 
 
 1^ 
 
 
 
 A, 
 
 ''''''■'^^^^^. J i^l 
 
 t; - ~ '' 
 
 
 
 
 Hl^l 
 
 
 
 
 / 
 
 ^-r 
 
 PYRAMUS AND THISBE 
 
 
 p 
 
 YRAMUS—Now will I to the chink, 
 To spy an I can hear my Thi^by''s face. 
 
 Thi?hy ! Act V, scene i 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Hip. It must be your imagination then, and not 
 theirs. 
 
 The. If we imagine no worse of them than they of 
 themselves, they may pass for excellent men. Here 
 come two noble beasts in, a man and a lion. 
 
 Re-enter Lion and Moonshine 
 Lion. You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do feai- 
 
 The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor, 
 May now perchance both quake and tremble here, 
 When lion rough in wildest rage doth I'oar. 
 Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am 
 A lion-fell, nor else no lion's dam ; 
 For, if I should as lion come in strife 
 Into this place, 't were pity on my life. 
 
 The. a very gentle beast, and of a good conscience. 
 
 Dem. The very best at a beast, my lord, that e'er I 
 saw. 
 
 Lys. This lion is a very fox for his valour. 
 
 The. True ; and a goose for his discretion. 
 
 Dem. Not so, my lord ; for his valour cannot carry 
 his discretion ; and the fox carries the goose. 
 
 The. His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his 
 valour ; for the goose carries not the fox. It is weU : 
 leave it to his discretion, and let us listen to the moon. 
 
 Moon. This lanthom doth the homed moon present ; — 
 
 Dem. He should have worn the horns on his 
 head. 
 
 [85] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 The. He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible 
 within the circumference. 
 
 Moon. This lanthom doth the homed moon present ; 
 Myself the man i' the moon do seem to be. 
 
 The. This is the greatest error of all the rest : the 
 man should be put into the lantern. How is it else the 
 man i' the moon ? 
 
 Dem. He dares not come there for the candle ; for, 
 you see, it is already in snuif. 
 
 Hip. I am aweary of this moon : would he would 
 change ! 
 
 The. It appears, by his small light of discretion, that 
 he is in the wane ; but yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we 
 must stay the time. 
 
 Lys. Proceed, Moon. 
 
 Moon. All that I have to say, is, to tell you that 
 the lanthorn is the moon ; I, the man i' the moon ; 
 this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush ; and this dog, my 
 dog. 
 
 Dem. Why, all these should be in the lantern ; for 
 all these are in the moon. But, silence ! here comes 
 Thisbe. 
 
 Re-enter Thisbe 
 
 This. This is old Ninny's tomb. Where is my love ? 
 
 Lion. [Roaring\ Oh \TMsbe runs off. 
 
 Dem. Well roared, Lion. 
 
 [86] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 The. WeU run, Thisbe. 
 
 Hip. WeU shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines 
 with a good grace. [ The Lion shakes TTiisbe's mantle, and eaoit. 
 The. Well moused, Lion. 
 Dem. And then came P5Tamus. 
 Lys. And so the lion vanished. 
 
 Re-enter Pyramus 
 
 Pyr. Sweet Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams ; 
 I thank thee. Moon, for shining now so bright ; 
 
 For, by thy gracious, golden, ghttering gleams, 
 I trust to take of truest Thisby sight. 
 But stay, O spite ! 
 But mark, poor knight, 
 What dreadful dole is here ! 
 Eyes, do you see ? 
 How can it be ? 
 O dainty duck ! O dear ! 
 Tliy mantle good. 
 What, stain'd with blood ! 
 Approach, ye Furies fell ! 
 O Fates, come, come. 
 Cut thread and thrum ; 
 Quail, crush, conclude, and quell ! 
 
 The. This passion, and the death of a dear friend, 
 would go near to make a man look sad. 
 
 Hip. Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man. 
 Pyr. O wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame ? 
 
 [87] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Since lion vile hath here deflower'd my dear : 
 Which is — no, no — which was the fairest dame 
 
 That lived, that loved, that liked, that loolc'd with cheer. 
 
 Come, tears, confound ; 
 
 Out, sword, and wound 
 The pap of Pyramus ; 
 
 Ay, that left pap, 
 
 Where heart doth hop : [Stabs himself. 
 
 Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. 
 
 Now am I dead, 
 
 Now am I fled ; 
 My soul is in the sky : 
 
 Tongue, lose thy light ; 
 
 Moon, take thy flight : [_Ejrit Moonshine. 
 
 Now die, die, die, die, die. [Dies. 
 
 Dem. No die, but an ace, for him ; for he is but one. 
 
 Lys. Less than an ace, man ; for he is dead ; he is 
 nothing. 
 
 The. With the help of a surgeon he might yet re- 
 cover, and prove an ass. 
 
 Hip. How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe 
 comes back and finds her lover ? 
 
 The. She will find him by starlight. Here she 
 comes ; and her passion ends the play. 
 
 Re-enter Thisbe 
 
 Hip. Methinks she should not use a long one for 
 such a Pyramus : I hope she will be brief. 
 
 [88] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Dem. a mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, 
 which Thisbe, is the better ; he for a man, God warrant 
 us ; she for a woman, God bless us. 
 
 Lys. She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes. 
 
 Dem. And thus she means, videlicet : — 
 
 This. Asleep, my love ? 
 
 What, dead, my dove ? 
 O Pyramus, arise ! 
 
 Speak, speak. Quite dumb ? 
 
 Dead, dead ? A tomb 
 Must cover thy sweet eyes. 
 
 These lily lips. 
 
 This cherry nose. 
 These yellow cowslip cheeks, 
 
 Are gone, are gone : 
 
 Lovers, make moan : 
 His eyes were green as leeks. 
 
 O Sisters Tiiree, 
 
 Come, come to me. 
 With hands as pale as milk : 
 
 Lay them in gore. 
 
 Since you have shore 
 With shears his thread of silk. 
 
 Tongue, not a word : 
 
 Come, trusty sword ; 
 Come, blade, my breast imbrue : [^Stabs herself. 
 
 And, farewell, fiiends ; 
 
 Thus Thisby ends : 
 Adieu, adieu, adieu. \_Dies. 
 
 [89] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 The. Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead. 
 Dem. Ay, and Wall too. 
 
 BoT. {Starting up\ No, I assure you ; the wall is down 
 that parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the 
 epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance between two of 
 our company ? 
 
 The. No epilogue, I pray you ; for your play needs 
 no excuse. Never excuse ; for when the players are all 
 dead, there need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that 
 writ it had played Pyramus and hanged himself in 
 Thisbe's garter, it would have been a fine tragedy : and 
 so it is, truly ; and very notably discharged. But, come, 
 your Bergomask : let your epilogue alone. [^ daiice. 
 The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve : 
 Lovers, to bed ; 't is almost fairy time. 
 I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn. 
 As much as we this night have overwatch'd. 
 This palpable-gross play hath well beguiled 
 The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed. 
 A fortnight hold we this solemnity. 
 In nightly revels and new jollity. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Puck 
 
 Puck. Now the hungry lion roars. 
 
 And the wolf behowls the moon ; 
 Whilst the heavy ploughman snores. 
 All with weary task fordone. 
 [90] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 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 frohc : not a mouse 
 Shall disturb this hallow'd house : 
 I am sent with broom before,* 
 To sweep the dust behind the door. 
 
 Enter Obeeon and Titania with their train 
 
 Obe. Through the house give glimmering light. 
 By the dead and drowsy fire : 
 Every elf and fairy sprite 
 
 Hop as light as bird from brier ; 
 And this ditty, after me. 
 Sing, and dance it trippingly. 
 TiTA. First, rehearse your song by rote, 
 
 * The fairies were supposed to be very clean and to help maids in the 
 work of the house and to sweep the house at night. 
 
 [91] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 To each word a warbling note : 
 Hand in hand, with fairy grace, 
 Will we sing, and bless this place. 
 
 \_Song and dance. 
 Obe. 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, hare lip, 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, 
 
 Ever shall in safety rest, 
 
 And the owner of it blest. 
 
 Trip away ; make no stay ; 
 
 Meet me all by break of day. 
 
 [Exeunt Oberon, Titania, and train. 
 [92] 
 
A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 Puck. If we shadows have offended, 
 
 Think but this, and all is mended. 
 
 That you have but slumber 'd 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 har call : 
 
 So, good night unto you all. 
 
 Give me your hands,^ if we be friends, 
 
 And Robin shall restore amends. lExit. 
 
 ^ Give a round of applause. 
 
 [93] 
 
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