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“ Which is no, no—which was the fairest dame,
Out, sword, and wound
“ Where heart doth hop:“ Thus die I, thus, thus, thus.
“ Now am I dead,
“ Now am I fled;
Tongue, lose thy light!
Moon, take thy flight! “ Now die, die, die, die, die.
[Dies. Erit Moonshine. Dem. No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but
Lys. Less than an ace, man; for he is dead; he is nothing
The. With the help of a surgeon, he might yet recover, and prove an ass.
Hip. How chance moonshine is gone, before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover?
The. She will find him by star-light.—Here she comes; and her passion ends the play.
Hip. Methinks, she should not use a long one, for such a Pyramus: I hope, she will be brief.
Dem. A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisbe, is the better.
· Lys. She hath spied him already, with those sweet eyes. Dem. And thus she moans, videlicet.
This. “ Asleep, my love?
“What, dead, my dove? “O Pyramus, arise,
“ Speak, speak. Quite dumb?
“ Dead, dead? A tomb
“ These lily brows,
“ This cherry nose,
“ Are gone, are gone:
“ Lovers, make moan!
O sisters three,
“ Come, come, to me,
“ Lay them in gore,
“ Since you have shore
“ Come, trusty sword;
* And farewel, friends;
“ Thus Thisby ends: “ Adieu, adieu, adieu!”.
[Dies. The. Moonshine and lion are left to bury the dead.
Dem. Ay, and wall too.
Bot. 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 play'd Pyramus, and hang’d himself in Thisbe's garter, it would have been a fine tragedy: and so it is, truly; and very notably discharg’d. But come, your Bergomask: let your epilogue alone. [Here a dance of Clowns. The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve: Lovers, to bed; 'tis 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 beguild The heavy gait of night.-Sweet friends, to bed. A fortnight hold we this solemnity, In nightly revels, and new jollity. [Exeunt.
And the wolf behowls the moon;
All with weary task fordone.
Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud,'
In remembrance of a shroud.
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 Hecat's team,
Following darkness like a dream,
the dust behind the door.
Enter Oberon and Titania, with their Train.
Hop as light as bird from brier;
SONG, AND DANCE.
And the blots of nature's hand
Make no stay;
[Ereunt Oberon, Titania, and Train. Puck. If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, (and all is mended, )
have but slumber'd here,