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Pard, or boare with bristled haire,
In thy eye that shall appeare,
When thou wak'st, it is thy deare,
Wake when some vile thing is néere.
Enter Lysander and Hermia.
Lyf. Faire loue, you faint with wandring in the woods,
And to speake troth I haue forgot our way:
Wee'l rest vs Hermia, if you thinke it good,
And tarry for the comfort of the day.
Her. Be it fo Lyfander; finde you out a bed,
For I vpon this banke will rest my head
Lyf. One turffe shall serue as pillow for vs both, One heart, one bed, two bosomes, and one troth.
Her. Nay good Lysander, for my fake my deare
Lie further off yet, do not lie fo neere.
Lys. O take the fence sweete, of my innocence,
Loue takes the meaning, in loues conference,
I meane that
heart vnto yours is knit,
So that but one heart we can make of it.
Two bosomes interchained with an oath,
So, then two bosomes, and a single troth.
Then by your side, no bed-roome me deny,
For lying fo, Hermia, I do not lye.
Her. Lysander riddles very prettily;
Now much beshrew my manners and my pride,
If Hermia meant to say, Lysander lied.
But gentle friend, for loue and courtesie
Lie further off, in humane modesty,
Such separation, as may well be said,
Becomes a vertuous batchellor, and a maide,
So farre be distant, and good night sweet friend;
Thy loue nere alter till thy sweet life ende.
Lys. Amen, amen, to that faire praier, say I,
And then end life, when I end loialty :
Heere is my bed, seepe giue thee all his rest.
Her. With halfe that wish, the wishers eyes be prest.
Puck. Through the forrest haue I gone,
But Athenian finde I none,
On whose eies I might approue
This flowers force in stirring loue.
Night and silence: who is heere?
Weedes of Athens he doth weare :
This is he (my master said)
Despised the Athenian maide :
And heere the maiden Neeping sound,
On the danke and dirty ground.
Pretty foule, she durft not lye
Neere this lack-loue, this kill-curtesie.
Churle, vpon thy eyes I throw
All the power this charme doth owe:
When thou wak'st, let loue forbid
Sleepe his seate, on thy eye-lid.
So awake when I am gone :
For I must now to Oberon.
Enter Demetrius and Helena running.
Hel. Stay, though thou kill me, sweete Demetrius.
Dem. I charge thee hence, and do not haunt me thus.
Hel. O wilt thou darkling leaue me? Do not fo.
De. Stay on thy perill, I alone will goe.
Hel. O I am out of breath, in this fond chase,
The more my praier, the lesser is my grace.
Happy is Hermia, wheresoere she lies ;
For she hath blessed and attractiue eyes.
How came her eyes so bright ? Not with salt teares.
If so, my eies are oftner washt then hers.
No, no, I am as vgly as a beare ;
For beasts that meete me, runne away for feare,
Therefore no maruaile, though Demetrius
Do as a monster, flie my presence thus.
What wicked and dissembling glasle of mine,
Made me compare with Hermias sphery eyne ?
But who is here, Lysander on the ground ?
Dead or alleepe? I see no blood, no wound,
Lysander, if you liue, good sir awake.
Lys. And run through fire I will for thy sweet fake.
Transparant Helena, nature shewes arte,
That through thy bosome makes me fee thy heart.
Where is Demetrius ? oh how fit a word
Is that vile name, to perish on my sword !
Hel. Do not say so Lysander, fay not so:
What though he loue your Hermia? Lord, what though?
Yet Hermia still loues you ; then be content.
Lyf. Content with Hermia ? No, I do repent
The tedious minutes I with her haue spent.
Not Hermia, but Helena * now I loue
Who will not change a rauen for a doue ?
The will of man is by his reason swai'd :
And reason saies you are the worthier maid.
Things growing are not ripe vntill their season;
So I being young, till now ripe not to reason,
And touching now the point of humane skill,
Reason becomes the marshall to my will,
And leads me to your eyes, where I orelooke
Loues stories, written in loues richest booke.
Hel. Wherefore was I to this keene mockery borne ?
When at your hands did I deserue this fcorne?
Ist not enough, ist not enough, young man,
That I did neuer, no nor neuer can,
Deserue a sweete looke from Demetrius eye,
But you must fout my insufficency?
Good troth you do me wrong (good-footh you do)
In such disdainful manner, me to wooe.
But fare you well; perforce I must confesse,
I thought you lord of more true gentlenesse.
Oh, that a lady of one man refvs'd,
Should of another therefore be abus'd.
Lyf. She fees not Hermia : Hermia, sleepe thou there,
And neuer maist thou come Lysander neere;
For as a surfet of the sweetest things
The deepest loathing to the stomacke brings;
Or as the heresies that men do leaue,
Are hated most of those they did deceiue :
So thou, my surfet, and my heresie,
Of all be hated; but the most of me;
And all my powers addresse your loue and might,
To honour Helen, and to be her knight.
Exit. Her. Helpe me Lysander, helpe me; do thy best To plucke this crawling ferpent from my brest. Aye me, for pitty; what a dreame was here? Lysander looke, how I do quake with feare: Me-thought a ferpent eate my heart away, And you fat smiling at his cruell prey. Lysander, what remoou'd? Lysander, Lord, What, out of hearing, gone? No found, no word ? Alacke where are you? Speake and if you heare; Speake of all loues; I swound almost with feare. No, then I well perceive you are not nye, Eyther death or you ile finde immediately:
Exit. Enter the Clownes. Bot. Are we all mer ?
Quin. Pat, pat, and heres a maruailous conuenient place for our rehearsall. This greene plot fhall be our ftage, this hauthorne brake our tyring house, and we will doe it in action, as we will do it before the duke.
Bot. Peter Quince?
Peter. What faist thou, bully Bottome?
Bot. There are things in this comedy of Piramus and Thisby, that will neuer please. First, Piramus must draw a sword to kill himselfe ; which the ladyes cannot abide. How antwer you that?
Snout. Berlaken, a parlous feare.
Star. I beleeue we must leaue the killing out, when all is done.
Bot. Not a whit, I haue a deuice to make all well. Write me a prologue, and let the prologue feeme to say, wee will do no harme with our swords, and that Pyramus is not kild indeed: and for the more better assurance, tell them that I Piramus am not Piramus, but Bottome the weauer; this will put them out of feare.
Quin. Well, we will haue such a prologue, and it shall be written in eight and fixe.
Bot. No, make it two more, let it be written in eight and eight.
Snont. Will not the ladies be afeard of the lyon?
Star. I feare it, I promise you.
Bot. Masters, you ought to consider with your selfe, to bring in (God Thield vs) a lyon among ladies, is a most dreadfull thing. For there is not a more fearefull wilde fowle then your lyon living: and we ought to looke to it.
Snout. Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lyon.
Bot. Nay, you must name his name, and halfe his face must be seen through the lyons necke, and hee himselfe must speake through, saying thus, or to the fame deffect; Ladies,