Lys. More than to us

Wait on your royal walks, your board, your

bed!

The. Come now; what masks, what dances shall we have,

To wear away this long age of three hours,
Between our after supper, and bed-time?
Where is our usual manager of mirth?,
What revels are in hand? Is there no play,
To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?
Call Philostrate.

Philost. Here, mighty Theseus.

The. Say, what abridgment have you for this evening?

What mask? what musick? How shall we beguile The lazy time, if not with some delight?

Philost. 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'll none of that: that have I told my love, In glory of my kinsman Hercules.

The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals,

Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage. That is an old device;, and it was play'd When I from Thebes came last a conqueror. The thrice three Muses mourning for the death Of learning, late deceas'd in beggary. That is some satire, keen, and critical, Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony.

A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus, And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth: Merry and tragical? Tedious and brief?

That is, hot ice, and wonderous strange snow.
How shall we find the concord of this discord?
Philost. A play there is, my Lord, some ten
words long;

Which is as brief as I have known a play;
But by ten words, my Lord, it is too long;
Which makes it tedious: for in all the play,
There is not one word apt, one player fitted.
And tragical, my noble Lord, it is;
For Pyramus therein doth kill himself.
Which, when I saw rehears'd, 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?

Philost. Hard-handed men, that work in Athens here,

Which never labour'd in their minds till now;
And now have toil'd their unbreath'd memories
With this same play, against your nuptial.
The. And we will hear it.

Philost. 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 comm'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. [Exit PHILOSTRATE. Hip. I love not to see wretchedness o'ercharg'd, 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 practis'd 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 pick'd a welcome;
And in the modesty of fearful duty

I read as much, as from the tattling tongue
Of sawcy and audacious eloquence.

Love, therefore, and tongue tied simplicity,
In least, speak most, to any capacity.

Enter PHILOSTRATE.

Philost. So please your Grace, the prologue' is addrest.

The. Let him approach. [Flourish of Trumpets. Enter 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 play'd on this prologue, like 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, as in dumb show.

Prol.,,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,

present

doth

,,Wall, that vile wall which did these lovers

sunder:

,,And through wall's chink, poor souls, they are

content

,,,To whisper; at the which let no man

wonder.

,,This man, with lantern, dog, and bush of

thorn,

',,Presenteth moon-shine:

know,

for, if you will

,,By moon-shine did these lovers think no scorn To meet at Niùus tomb, there, there to

Woo.

,,This grisly beast, which by name lion hight,
,,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, moon-shine, wall, and lovers twain, ,,At large discourse, while here they do remain." [Exeunt Prol. 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.

Wall.,,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 cranny'd hole, or chink, ,,Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby, ,,Did whisper often very secretly.

,,This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone, doth show

,,That. I am that same wall; the truth is so: ,,And this the cranny is, right and sinister, ,,Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper." 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!