Chapter XXII: Prologue: Shows

Their shallow shows and prologues vilely penned.
V, 2, 305.

SCENE.

Worthies away! the scene begins to cloud.
V, 2, 730.

Of these four Worthies, in their first show thrive,
These four will change habits.
V, 2, 541.

There is five in the first show.
V, 2, 543.

It should have followed in the end of our show.
V, 2, 898.

The King would have me present the Princess with some delightful
ostentation or show a pageant or antic or firework.
V, I, 115.

WORTHY. (NINE WORTHIES.)

He is not quantity enough for that Worthy’s thumb.
V, I, 138.

For the rest of the Worthies? I will play three myself.
V, I, 149.

I will play on the tabor to the Worthies.
V, I, 161.

They would know whether the three Worthies should come in.
V, 2, 486.

I know not the degree of a Worthy but I stand for him.
V, 2, 508.

Here is like to be a good presence of Worthies.
V, 2, 537.

My hat to a halfpenny Pompey proves the best Worthy.
V, 2, 504.

He will be the ninth Worthy.
V, 2, 582.

There a Worthie’s acoming.
V, 2, 588.

Room for the insensed Worthies.
V, 2, 703.

Worthies away the scene begins to cloud.
V, 2, 730.

MASKS. VIZARD.

You have a double tongue within your mask
An would afford my speechless vizard half.
V, 2, 242.

HOBBY-HORSE.

But O, but O--the Hobby-horse is forgot.
III, I, 30.

MACBETH

ACT. PROLOGUE.

Two truths are told
As happy prologues to the swelling act
Of the imperial theme.
I, 3, 128.

PLAYER. STAGE.

A poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more.
V, 5, 24.

SHOW.

Then yield thee coward
And live to be the show and gaze o’ the time.
We’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,
Painted on a pole and underwrit:
“Here may you see the tyrant.”
V, 7, 53.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE

STAGE. APPLAUSE.

I love the people,
But do not like to stage me to their eyes,
Though it do well, I do not relish well
Their loud applause and Aves vehement.
I, 1, 69.

This passage would seem connected in some manner with the theatre. The Duke, who expresses this sentiment, wishes to convey that he is anxious in avoiding the vulgar gaze. The “Aves” may refer to exclamations of applause, and were possibly signs of approval at the Universities in Elizabethan times. Its general signification is Hail! Welcome, or Farewell! adieu. Also a shout of welcome. The word is better known in the angelic salutation _Ave Maria_.

MERCHANT OF VENICE

MASQUE.

Will you prepare for this masque to-night?
II, 4, 23.

The mask, or later masque, was an entertainment which had been introduced into England as far back as the reign of Edward III. In 1348, Edward II kept Christmas at Guildford, and a mask was held there in his honour. When first seen in England, dancing was the only factor of the masque, most often in masquerade, somewhat after the fashion of our balmasques, with this difference: that stately dances nearly filled the programme, the Master of the Revels allowing only two or three round dances, such as galliards and corantos. A mask is introduced in Shakespeare’s play of “King Henry VIII,” the King and his companions, attired as shepherds, with masks covering their faces, enter the palace of Cardinal Wolsey, and take part in the Revels. Early in the sixteenth century, dialogue and scenery were introduced, and soon became a prominent feature of the masque, but very shortly developed into set speeches. This class of entertainment, under the guidance of Ben Jonson and Inigo Jones, had become quite a literary and artistic undertaking. Thousands of pounds were lavished on these court revels, and even the King and Queen took part in them (King James the First and his consort, Anne of Denmark).

The masque at this period, 1620, was a combination in variable proportion of speech, dance and song. The Masquers were dressed in gorgeous costumes in accordance with the characters they represented. During James’s reign, the mask for the face was dispensed with, as it was regarded as quite an unnecessary disguise. At the outbreak of the Civil War, 1642, the masque abruptly ceased, and was never revived. Many masques are extant, and survive in manuscript and printed copies.

PAGEANT.

Your mind is tossing on the ocean,
There where your argosies of portly sail,
Like Signors and rich burghers on the flood,
Or as it were, the pageants of the sea.

An allusion to those enormous machines that were drawn about the streets in the ancient shows or pageants. These machines were in the shape of castle dragons, ships, giants, and were regarded as the most important part of the show.

DUMB-SHOW.

What say you, then, to Falconbridge, the young baron of England?

PORTIA.

He is a proper man’s picture, but, alas! who can converse with a
dumb-show?
I, 2, 78.

MASQUE.

I will not say you will see a mask.
II, 5, 23.

No masque to-night.
II, 6, 64.

What! are these masques?
II, 5, 28.

PLAY. STAGE. PART.

ANT.

I hold the world, but as the world, Gratanio,
A stage where every man must play a part and mine a sad one.

GRA.

Let me play fool.

Gratanio wishes to play the Fool, or comic part, which was a regular character in the old morality interludes, whence came the phrase, to ‘play the fool.’

MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR

PROPERTIES.

Get us properties, and tricking for our fairies.
IV, 4, 78.

“Properties” for stage purposes was in use much earlier than Shakespeare’s time, and has remained in the vocabulary of the theatre until the present day. In its technical theatrical signification, such as the above quotation, it refers to any portable article whether costume, furniture, or weapons required during the acting of the play. In Elizabethan times the properties used were few and simple; they consisted of things that were absolutely necessary, thus giving a realistic appearance to the performance. If a bedroom scene is being represented, a bed, table, chairs or stools and lights are the properties mentioned in the play, and, no doubt, produced on the stage. In scenes of open country, a wood, a park, and artificial trees, mossy banks, and sometimes a rock, or a tomb, would be fixed on the stage. That such properties were in use can be proved from the notes in Henslowe’s invaluable Diary, where such things are mentioned. In shop scenes, a counter and a few articles to indicate the nature of the business were no doubt exhibited. No painted scenery was known, but the stage was draped with tapestry and perhaps a few pictures were also displayed. The floor in all scenes was covered with rushes, which were suitable for any setting. If a room was being represented, rushes were quite appropriate, as at that date they were the substitute for our carpet. If a nature scene, they harmonised with the green foliage and completed the picture. Many other articles besides the above-mentioned were brought into use; thus it is quite evident that, however simple the setting, it sufficed in conveying the proper allusion. Even in our own times, I have witnessed a play of Molière’s, in which a table and two chairs were the only properties on the stage.

“Of all properties for my Lord Admiral’s men, the 10th of March, 1598: 1 rock, 1 cage, 1 tomb, 1 Hell mouth, 2 marchepanes and the sittie (city) of Rome (rather a tall order), 2 wooden canopies, old Mahomet’s head, and other accessories.”

ACT. HISS.

If I do not act it, hiss me.
III, 3, 40.

CUE.

Remember you your cue.
III, 3, 40.

The concluding word or words of a speech in a play serving as a signal or direction to another to begin his speech. The word cue has been taken as French _queue_, that is, the tail or ending of the preceding speech; but no such use of queue has even been used in French, where the cue is called _replique_, and no literal sense of queue or cue leading up to this appears in the sixteenth century English. On the other hand, in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries it is found written Q, q or qu, and it was explained by seventeenth century writers as a contraction for some Latin word (_qualis_, _quando_), said to have been used to mark in actors’ copies of plays the points at which they were to begin. But no evidence confirming this has ever been found.

Q. A qu, a term used among stage-plaiers, a Lat qualis--at what manner of word the Actors are to beginne to speake one after another hath done his speech. 1625.

Q. A note of entrance for actors, because it is the first letter of quando--when, showing when to enter and speak. 1633. From Butler’s _English Grammar_. The word is printed both Qu and Cue in the Folios and quartos. All modern editions print cue.

The clock gives me my cue.
III, 2, 46.

MASQUED. VIZARDED.

For they must all be masqued and vizarded.
IV, 6, 40.

In the early days of the masque the performers always wore masks or vizards.

PART.

(_Enter Sir Hugh Evans, disguised with others, as fairies._)

Trib, fairies; come! and remember your parts; be bold, I pray you;
follow me into the pit, and when I give ords, do as I pid you; come
come; trib, trib.
V, 4, 2.

SCENE.

Fat Falstaffe
Hath a great scene.
IV, 6, 17.

COMEDY. PROLOGUE.

After we had embraced, kissed and protested and
As it were spoke the prologue to our comedy.
III, 5, 76.

A comedy was a theatrical piece generally depicting the manners of the period, always of an amusing and cheerful character, a happy conclusion being one of the essential features. Some of Shakespeare’s so-called comedies almost verge on the side of tragedy, as, for instance, the plot of the “Merchant of Venice,” “The Winter’s Tale,” and others.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

QUINCE.

Is all our company here?

BOTTOM.

You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the
scrip.

QUIN.

Here is the scroll of every man’s name, which is thought fit,
through all Athens, to play in our interlude before the Duke and
the Duchess on his wedding-day at night.

BOT.

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.

BOT.

Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed.

QUIN.

You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus.

BOT.

What is Pyramus? a lover or a tyrant?

QUIN.

A lover, that kills himself most gallant for love.

BOT.

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 split.

The 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 me not 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.

And I may hide my face. Let me play Thisby, too; I’ll speak in a
monstrous little 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.

STAR.

Here, Peter Quince.

QUIN.

You, Pyramus’ 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.

And 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 discretion but to hang us; but I will
aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as gently as any sucking
dove; I will roar you an’ ’twere 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,
gentleman-like man; therefore you must needs play Pyramus.

BOT.

Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I best to play it in?

QUIN.

Why, what you will.

BOT.

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 will
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 we will rehearse, for if we meet in the city,
we shall be dogged with company, and our devices known. In the
meantime I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants.
I pray you, fail me not.

BOT.

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.

BOT.

Enough; hold or cut bow-strings.
_Act_ I. _Scene_ II.

* * * * *

BOT.

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. Write me a prologue;
and let the prologue seem to say, we will 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 Pyramus, but
Bottom, the weaver: this will 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.

Will 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.

QUIN.

Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard things; that is, to
bring the moonlight into a chamber, for, you know, Pyramus and
Thisby meet by moonlight.

SNOUT.

Doth the moon shine that night we play our play?

BOT.

A calendar, a calendar! look in the almanac; find out moonshine,
find out moonshine.

QUIN.

Yes, it doth shine that night.

BOT.

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.

SNOUT.

You can never bring in a wall. What say you, Bottom?

BOT.

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. Pyramus, you begin: when you have
spoken your speech, enter into that brake, and so every one
according to his cue.

(_Enter Puck, behind._)

PUCK.

What hempen home-spuns have we swaggering here,
So near the cradle of the fairy queen?
What, a play toward! I’ll 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.

BOT.

---- 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 Pyramus than e’er play’d here.

FLU.

Must I speak now?

QUIN.

Ay, marry, must you; for you must understand 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,
I’ll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny’s tomb.

QUIN.

“Ninus’ tomb,” man; why, you must not speak that yet; that you
answer to Pyramus. You speak all your part at once, cues and all.
Pyramus enter: your due is past; it is, “never tire.”

FLU.

O,--As true as truest horse, that 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! we are haunted.
Pray, masters! fly, masters! Help!
_Act_ III, Sc. I, _lines_ 1-107.

THESUS.

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 our usual manager of mirth?
What revels are in hand? Is there no play
To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?
Call Philostrate.

PHIL.

Here, mighty Thesus.

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.

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.
(_Reads_) The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals,
Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.
That is an old decide; 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 shall we find the concord of this discord?

PHIL.

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 play 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 anything can be amiss,
When simpleness and duty tender it.
Go, bring them in: and take your places, ladies.

HIP.

I love not to see wretchedness o’ercharged,
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 in it 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 broken 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 Philostrate._)

PHIL.

So please, your Grace, the Prologue is address’d.

(_Flourish of trumpets._)

(_Enter Quince for 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 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._)

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 line and rough-cast, doth present
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 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.

(_Exeunt 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.

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 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:
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 Pyramus_).

PYR.

O grim-look’d night! O night with hue so black!
O night, which ever art when day is not!
O night, O night! alack, alack, alack,
I 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 his fingers._)

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 wall, 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.

(_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 grave;
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’d come without delay.

(_Exeunt Pyramus and Thisbe._)

WALL.

Thus have I, wall, my part discharged so;
And, being done, this wall away doth go.

THE.

Now is the mural down between the two neighbours.

DEM.

No remedy, my lord, when walls 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.

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 fear
The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor,
May now perchance both quake and tremble here,
When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar.

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, ’twere pity on my life.

THE.

A very gentle beast, and of 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 discretions; 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 well: leave it to his discretion, and
let us listen to the moon.

MOON.

This lanthorn doth the horned moon present;--

DEM.

He should have worn the horns on his head.

THE.

He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the
circumference.

MOON.

This lanthorn doth the horned 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 lanthorn. 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 snuff.

HIP.

I am aweary of this moon: would he would change!

THE.

It appears, by his small light of discretion, that he is on 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, ----.

DEM.

Well roared, Lion.

THE.

Well run, Thisbe.

HIP.

Well shone, Moon. Truly the moon shines with a good grace.

(_The Lion shakes Thisbe’s mantle, and exit._)

THE.

Well moused, Lion.

DEM.

And then came Pyramus.

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 gravious, golde, glittering gleams,
I trust to take of truest Thisby’s 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!
Thy 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?
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 look’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. (_Exit 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 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 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.

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 Three,
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, friends:
Thus Thisbe ends:
Adieu, adieu, adieu. (Dies.)

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.
_Act_ V. _Scene_ I. _Line 32-line_ 369.

ACTORS.

Read the names of the actors, and so grow to a point.
I, 2, 9.

Call forth your actors by the scroll,
Masters spread yourselves.
I, 2, 16.

I’ll be an auditor;
An actor, too, perhaps. If I see cause.
III, 1, 82.

Most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter
sweet breath.
IV, 2, 43.

The actors are at hand, and by their show
You shall know all.
V, 1, 116.

AUDIENCE.

If I do let the audience look to their eyes.
V, 1, 145.

COMEDY.

Our play is the most lamentable comedy, and most cruel death of
Pyramus and Thisbe.
I, 11, 12.

There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisby that will
never please.
III, 1, 9.

I do not doubt but to hear them say it is a sweet comedy.
IV, 2, 45.

CUE. PART.

And so every one according to his cue.
III, 1, 78.

You speak all your parts at once, cues and all.
III, 1, 102.

When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer.
IV, 1, 205.

“Deceiving me” is Thisby’s cue.
V, 1, 186.

ABRIDGEMENT.

Say, what abridgement have you for this evening?
What masques, what music? How shall we beguile
The lazy time if not with some delight.
V, 1, 35.

An “Abridgement” appears to be an entertainment consisting of a dramatic performance of short duration to while away the time. Another meaning was a compendium of a larger work with the details abridged. I cannot find any contemporary use of this term, as it is employed by Shakespeare.

AUDITOR.

I’ll be an auditor; an actor, too, perhaps.
III, 1, 81.

EIGHT AND SIX. PROLOGUE.

QUINCE.

We will have such a prologue; and it shall be written in eight and
six.
III, 1, 25.

The ballads of the day were generally written in this metre, alternate verses of eight and six syllables. The sonnets of the time were composed in fourteen lines. All Shakespearean sonnets are written in this number. Quince may have had this reckoning in his mind when he recommended eight and six--fourteen. George Gascoigne, the Elizabethan poet, composed the verses for a masque in fourteen syllable metre. In the play as performed before the Duke, the prologue does not appear.