The duke was here, and bid us follow him? Her. Yea; and my father.

Hel.

And Hippolyta.

Lys. And he did bid us follow to the temple. Dem. Why then, we are awake: let's follow him; And, by the way, let us recount our dreams. [Exeunt.

As they go out, BOTTOM awakes.

Bot. When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer-my next is, Most fair Pyramus.—Hey, ho!-Peter Quince! Flute, the bellows-mender! Snoat, the tinker! Starveling! God's my life! stolen hence, and left me asleep! I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream,-past the wit of man to say what dream it was :-Man is but an ass, if he go about to expound this dream. Methought I was -there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had. But man is but a patched fool, if he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen; man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream: it shall be called Bottom's Dream, because it hath no bottom; and I will sing it in the latter end of a play, before the duke: Peradventure, to make it the more gracious, I shall sing it at her death. [Exit. SCENE II.-Athens.

A Room in Quince's House. Enter QUINCE, FLUTE, SNOUT, and STARVELING. Quin. Have you sent to Bottom's house? is he come home yet?

Star. He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt, he is transported.

Flu. If he come not then, the play is marred; It goes not forward, doth it? Quin. It is not possible: you have not a man in all Athens, able to discharge Pyramus, but he. Flu. No; he hath simply the best wit of any handycraft man in Athens.

Quin. Yea, and the best person too: and he is a

for a sweet voice.

very paramour, Fl. You must say, paragon: a paramour is, God bless us, a thing of nought.

Enter SNUG.

Smug. Masters, the duke is coming from the temple, and there is two or three lords and ladies more married: if our sport had gone forward, we had all been made men.

Fiu. O sweet Bully Bottom! Thus hath he lost sixpence a-day during his life; he could not have scaped sixpence a-day: an the duke had not given him sixpence a-day for playing Pyramus, I'll be hanged; he would have deserved it: sixpence a-day, in Pyramus, or nothing.

Enter Воттом.

his nails, for they shall hang out for the lion's claws. And, most dear actors, eat no onions, nor garlick, for we are to utter sweet breath; and I do not doubt, but to hear them say, It is a sweet comedy. No more words; away; go, away. [Exeunt.

ACT V.

SCENE I.-The same.

An Apartment in the
Palace of Theseus.

Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE,
Lords, and Attendants.

Hip. "Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.

The. More strange than true. I never may believe
These antique fables, nor these fairy toys.
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,
Are of imagination all compact:
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold;
That is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt:
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to
And, as imagination bodies forth
[heaven,
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
Such tricks hath strong imagination;
A local habitation, and a name.
It comprehends some bringer of that joy;
That, if it would but apprehend some joy,
Or, in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush suppos'd a bear?

And all their minds transfigured so together,
Hip. But all the story of the night told over,
And grows to something of great constancy;
More witnesseth than fancy's images,
But, howsoever, strange, and admirable.
Enter LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS, HERMIA, and HELENA.
The. Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.-
Joy, gentle friends! joy, and fresh days of love,
Accompany your hearts!
Lys.
More than to us
Wait on your royal walks, your board, your bed!
The. Come now; what masks, what dances shall

we have,

To wear away this long age of three hours,
Between our after-supper and bed-time?
What revels are in hand? Is there no play,
Where is our usual manager of mirth?
To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?
Call Philostrate.

[ing?

Philost. Here, mighty Theseus. The. Say, what abridgment have you for this evenWhat mask, what music? How shall we beguile The lazy time, if not with some delight?

Philost. There is a brief, how many sports are ripe; Make choice of which your highness will see first. [Giving a paper.

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.

The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals,
Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.
That is an old device, and it was play'd