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Duke. It appears by his small light of discretion, that hee is in the wane: but yet in courte sie, in all reason, we must stay the time.

Lyfand. Proceed Moone.

Moone. All that I have to say, is to tell you, that the lanthorne is the moone; I, the man in the moone; this thorne bush, my thorne bush, and this dog, my dog.

Deme. Why all these should bee in the lanthorne: for they are in the moone. But silence, heere comes Thisby.

Enter Thisby.
Th. This old Ninies toomb: wher's my loue?
Lyon. Oh.
Dem. Well roard Lyon.
Duke. Well runne Thisbie.

Dutch. Well shone Moone. Truely the Moone shines with a good grace.

Duke. Well mouz'd Lyon.
Dem. And then came Piramus.
Lyf. And so the Lyon vanisht.

Enter Piramus.

Pyr. Sweet Moone, I thank thee for thy sunny beames,
I thank thee Moone, for shining now so bright.
For by thy gracious, golden, glittering beames,
I trust to take of truest Thisbie sight.
But stay: Ô spight! but marke, poore knight,
What dreadful dole is here?
Eyes do you see! how can it be!
O dainty ducke, ô deare!
Thy mantle good, what staind with blood ?
Approach ye furies fell,
o fates come, come, cut thred and thrum,
Quaile, crush, conclude, and quell.


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Duke. This passion, and the death of a deare friend would goe neere to make a man looke sad,

Dutch. Beshrew my heart, but I pitty the man.

Pir. O'wherefore nature, didst thou lyons frame?
Since lyon vilde hath heere deflour'd my deare;
Which is, no, no, which was the fairelt dame
That liu'd, that lou'd, that lik’t, that look’t with cheere.
Come teares confound, out sword and wound
The pap of Piramus :
I, that left pap, where heart doth hop;
Thus die I, thus, thus, thus.
Now am I dead, now am I Aed, my soule, is in the sky,
Tongue lose thy light, moone take thy flight,
Now dye, dye, dye, dye, dye.

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

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

Duke. With the helpe of a surgeon, he might yet recouer and proue an asse.

Dutch. How chance Moone-sbine is gone before? Thisby comes backe, and findes her louer.

Duke. She will finde him by star-light. Here she comes, and her passion ends the play.

Dut. Me-thinks she should not vse a long one for such a Piramus : I hope she will be briefe.

Dem. A moth will turne the ballance, which Piramus, which Thisbie is the better : hee for a man, God warnd vs; The for a woman, God blesse vs.

Lys. She hath spied him already, with those sweete eies.
Dem. And thus the meanes, videlicit.

This. Alleepe my loue? What, dead my doue?
O Piramus arise,
Speake, speake. Quite dumbe! Dead, dead ? A toombe
Must cover thy sweet eies.


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These lilly lips, this cherry nose,
These yellow cowslip cheekes
Are gone, are gone ; louers make mone :
His eyes were greene as leekes.
O sisters three, come, come to me,
With hands as pale as milke,
Lay them in gore, fince you haue shore
With sheeres, his thred of silke.
Tongue not a word, come trusty sword,
Come blade, my breast imbrew :
And farwell friends, thus Thisbie ends;
Adieu, adieu, adieu.

Duke. Moon-fhine and Lyon are left to bury the dead.
Deme. I and Wall too.

Lyon. No, I assure you the wall is downe, that parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the Epilogue, or to heare a Bergomask dance, betweene two of our company ?

Duke. No Epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no excuse. Neuer excuse; for when the players are all dead, there need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ it, had plaid Piramus, and hang'd himselfe in Thisbies garter, it would haue beene a fine tragedy : and so it is truely, and very notably discharg'd. But come, your Burgomaske; let your Epilogue alone. The iron tongue of midnight hath tolde twelue. Louers to bed, tis almost fairy time. I feare we shall out-sleepe the comming morne, As much as we this night haue ouer-watcht. This palpable grosse play hath well beguild The heauy gate of night. Sweet friends to bed. A fortnight hold we this folemnity, In nightly reuels, and new iollity.






Now to scape the serpents tongue,
We will make amends ere long :
Else the Pucke a lyar call.
So good night vnto you all.
Giue me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.

F I N I S.

Pleasant and Excellent Conceited





Merry Wiues of Windsor. .


Swaggering Vaine of Ancient PISTOLL,

and Corporall Nym.




Printed for ARTHUR JOHNSON, 1619.

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