Arthurs Tooth

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Arthurs Tooth

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.
 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.

THESEUS.
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.