 Act 5 of A Midsummer Night's Dream. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare. Act 5. Scene 1. Athens. The Palace of Theseus. Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philistrate, Lords and Attendance. To strange my Theseus that these lovers speak of. 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 his frantic, sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt. The poet's eye, and fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven. And as imagination bodies forth, the forms of things unknown, the poet's pen turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name. Such tricks have strong imagination, that if it would but apprehend some joy it comprehends some bringer of that joy. Or in the night, imagining some fear, how easy is a bush, supposed to bear. But all the story of the night told over, and all their minds transfigured so together, more witnesses than fancy's images, and grows to something of great constancy. But how so ever, strange and admirable. Here come the lovers full of joy and mirth. Enter Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, and Helena. Joy, gentle friends, joy and fresh days of love accompany your hearts. More than to us, wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed. Come now, what masks, what dances shall we have, to airway this long age of three hours between our after supper and bedtime? 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 Philistrate. Here, mighty Thetheus. Say what abridgement have you for this evening? What mask? What music? How shall we begail the lazy time, if not with some delight? There is a brief how many sports are ripe. Make choice of which your Highness will see first. Giving a paper. Reads. The battle with the centaurs, to be sung by an Athenian eunuch to the harp. Still 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 played when I from Thebes came last to conquer. The thrice three muses, borning for the death of learning, late deceased in beggary. What is some satire, keen and critical, not sorting with an upshot ceremony? A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus and his love Thisby, 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? 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 a fitted. And tragical, my 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. What are they that do play it? Hard-handed men that work in Athens here, which never laboured in their minds till now, and now have toiled their unbreathed memories with this same play against your nuptial. And we will hear it? 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 stretched and conned with cruel pain, to do you service. 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. Exit Philistrate. I love not to see wretchedness overcharged, and duty in his service perishing. Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing. He says they can do nothing in this kind. 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 it in 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 broke off, not paying me a welcome. Exit 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 Philistrate. So please, your Grace, the prologue is addressed. Let him approach. 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 came but in despite. We do not come as minding too content you. Our true intent is, offer your delight, we are not here. That you should here repent you. The actors are at hand, and by they show, you shall know all that you are like to know. This fellow doth not stand upon points. He hath rid his prologue like a rough cult. He knows not the stop. A good moral, my lord. It is not enough to speak, but to speak true. Indeed, he hath played on his prologue like a child on a recorder. A sound, but not in government. His speech was like a tangled chain, nothing impaired but all disordered. Who is next? Enter Pyramus, and Thisby, Wall, Moonshine, and Lion. Gentles perchance you wonder at this show. But wonder on, till truth makes all things plain. This man is Pyramus, if you would know. This beauteous lady, Thisby, is certain. This man with lime and roughcast doth present wall. That via wall which did these lovers sander, and through walls chink poor souls they are content to whisper. At the which let no man wonder. This man with lantern, dog, and bush of thorn present of Moonshine. For, if you will know, by Moonshine did these lovers think no scorn to meet at Ninna's tomb. There, there to woo. This grisly beast, which Lion hiked by name, the trusted Thisby, coming first by night, did scare away, or rather did a fright. 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 broke his boiling, bloody breast. And Thisby, tearing in a mulberry shade, his dagger drew and died. For all the rest let Lion Moonshine wall, and lovers train, at large discourse, while they here do remain. Exiant Prologue, Thisby, Lion, and Moonshine I wonder if the Lion be to speak. No wonder, my lord, one Lion may, when many asses do. 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 roughcast, 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. Would you desire lime and hair to speak better? It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord. Enter Pyramus. Pyramus draws near the wall, silence. Oh grim-look night, oh night with you so black, oh night which ever art when day is not, oh night, oh night, alak, alak, alak. I fear my Thisby's promise is for God. And thou, oh wall, oh sweet, oh lovely wall that stands between her father's ground and mine, thou wall, oh wall, oh sweet and lovely wall, show me thy chink to blink through with mine iron. Wall holds up his fingers. Thanks, courier's wall. Jove shield thee well for this. But what see I? No Thisby do I see. A wicked wall through whom I see no bless. Curse it be thy stones for thus deceiving me. The wall me thinks being sensible should curse again. No in truth, sir, he should not. Deceiving me is Thisby's cue. She's to enter now and I'm to spy her through the wall. You shall see. It will fall part as I told you. Under she comes. Enter Thisby. Oh wall, full often as thou heard my moans, for parting my fair Pyramus and me. My cherry lips have often kissed thy stones, thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee. I see a voice. Now will I to the chink, to spy and I can hear my Thisby's face. Thisby. My love, thou art my love, I think. Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover's grace, and like LeMander, am I trusty stealth. And I like Helen till the fates me kill. Not Shafalas to Procress was so true. As Shafalas to Procress, I to you. Oh, kiss me through the hole of this vile wall. I kiss the wall's hole, not your lips at all. Wilt thou at Nini's tomb meet me straight away? Tide life, tide death I come. Without delay. Exiant Pyramus and Thisby. Thus have I, wall, my part discharged so, and being done, thus wall away doth go. Exit. Now is the mural down between the two neighbors. No remedy, my lord, when walls are so willful to hear without warning. This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard. The best in this kind are but shadows, and the worst are no worse if imagination amend them. It must be your imagination, then, and not theirs. If we imagine no worse of them than they of themselves, they may pass for excellent men. Here comes to noble be sin, a man and a lion. Enter Lion and Moonshine. You ladies, you's gentle arts do fear the smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor. May now perchance both quake and tremble here, when lion rough and wildest rage doth roar. Then no, that I, one snug the joiner am, a lion fell nor else no lion's dam, for if I should as lion come and strife into this place, torpedo my life. A very gentle beast of a good conscience. The very best at a beast, my lord, that ere I saw. This lion is a very fox for his valor. True, and a goose for his discretion. Not so, my lord, for his valor cannot carry his discretion, and the fox carries the goose. His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his valor, for the goose carries not the fox. It is well, leave it to his discretion and let us listen to the moon. This lanthorn doth the horned moon present. He should have worn the horns on his head. He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the circumference. This lanthorn doth the horned moon present. Myself, the man in the moon, do seem to be. This is the greatest error of all the rest the man should be put into the lanthorn. How was it else the man in the moon? He dares not come there for the candle, for you see it is already in snuff. I am aware of this moon. Would he would change? It appears by his small light of discretion that he is in the wane, but yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time. Proceed, moon. All that I have to say is to tell you that the lanthorn is the moon, I, the man in the moon, this thornbush, my thornbush, and this dog, my dog. Why, all these should be in the lanthorn for all these are in the moon. But silence, here comes Thisby. Enter Thisby. This is old Nitty's tomb. Where is my love? Thisby runs off. Well roared, lion. Well run, Thisby. Well shone, moon. Truly the moon shines with a good grace. The lion shakes Thisby's mantle and eggs it. Well mouse, lion. And so the lion vanished, and then came Pyramus. Enter Pyramus. Sweet moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams. I thank thee, moon, for shining now so bright. For by thy gracious golden glittering gleams I trust to take of truest Thisby sight. But stay, oh spite, but mark, poor knight, what dreadful dole is here? Eyes, do you see? How can it be? Oh dainty duck, oh dear, thy mantle good, what? Stained with blood? Approachy furies fell. Oh fates, come, come, cut thread, and thrum, quail, crush, conclude, and claw. This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad. Be shrew my heart, but I pity the man. Oh wherefore nature did thou lion's frame? Since lion-voil hath here deflowered, my dear, which is no, no, which was the fairest dame that lived, that loved, that liked, that looked with cheer. Come, tears confound, out, sword, and wound the pap of Pyramus. Aye, that left pap, where art doth hop, stabs himself. Thus die I, thus, thus, now am I dead, now am I fled, my soul is in the sky, tongue lo's thy light, moon, take thy flight. Exit moonshine. Now die. Dies. No die, but an ace for him, for he is but one. Less than an ace, man, for he is dead, he is nothing. With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover and prove an ass. How chance moonshine is gone, before Thisby comes back and finds her lover. She will find him by starlight. Here she comes, and her passion ends the play. Re-enter Thisby. Me thinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus. I hope she will be brief. Amote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisby is the better. He for a man God warrant us, she for a woman God bless us. She has spied him already with those sweet eyes. And thus she means the devil's it. Asleep, my love. What? Dead, my dove? Oh Pyramus, arise. Speak, speak. Quite dumb. Dead, dead. A tomb must cover thy sweet eyes. This lily lips, This cherry nose, This yellow cow slip cheeks. Ah gone, ah gone, Lovers, make moan. His eyes were green as leaks. 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 in brew. She stabs herself. And farewell, friends. Thus Thisby ends. Adieu, adieu, adieu. She dies. Moonshine and lion are left to bury the dead. Aye, and the wall, too. No, I assure you. The wall is down the part of their furthers. Will it please you to see the epilogue? Or to hear a burga-mask dance between two of our company? No epilogue, I pray you, for your play needs no excuse. Never excuse, for when the players are all dead there needs none to be blamed. Mary, if he that ridded had played Pyramus and hanged himself in Thisby's garter it would have been a fine tragedy. And so it is, truly, and very notably discharged. But come, your burga-mask, let your epilogue alone. Hey, dance. The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve, lovers, to bed. It is almost fairy-time. I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn as much as we this night have overwatched. This palpable gross play hath well beguiled the heavy gate of night. Sweet friends, to bed. A fortnight hold we this solemnity, in nightly revels and new jollity. Exeunt. Enter Pock. Now the hungry lion roars and the wolf behows the moon, whilst the heavy plowman snores, all with weary task foredone. Now the wasted brands do glow, whilst the scree-child, screeching loud, puts the wretch that lies in woe in remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night that the graves all gaping wide, every one lets forth his sprite, in the church-way, paths to glide. And we fairies that do run by the triple Hecatee's team, from the presence of the sun following darkness like a dream, now are frolic. Not a mouse shall disturb this hallowed house. I am sent with brum before to sweep the dust behind the door. Enter Oberon and Titania with their train. Through the house give gathering light, by the dread and drowsy fire, every elf and fairy's sprite hop as light as bird from briar, and this diddy after me sing and dance it trippingly. First rehearse your song by rote, to each word a warbling note. Hand in hand with fairy grace, will we sing and bless this place. Song and dance. Now until the break of day, through this house each fairy stray, to the best bride-bed will we which by us shall blessed be, and the issue there create ever shall be fortunate, so shall all the couples three ever true in loving be, and the blots of nature's hand shall not in their issue stand, never mole, hair-lip, nor scar, nor mark prodigious such as are despised in nativity shall upon their children be. With this field do consecrate every fairy take his gate, and each several chamber bless through this place with sweet peace, and the owner of it blessed shall ever in safety rest. Trip away, make no stay, meet me all by break of day. Exiant Oberon, Titania, and a train. If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended, that you have but slumbered here while these visions did appear, and this weak and idle theme no more yielding but a dream, Gentles do not reprehend. If you pardon, we will mend, and as I am an honest Puck, if we have unearned luck now to escape the serpent's tongue, we will make amends ere long, else the Puck a liar call. So good night unto you all, give me your hands if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends. End of Act Five End of A Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare