A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 3, Scene 1

Are we all met?

Are we all here?

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.

Right on time, right on time. And here's a wonderfully suitable place for our rehearsal. This patch of grass will be our stage, this hawthorn thicket our dressing room, and we'll act it out just as we'll do it in front of the Duke.

Peter Quince?

Peter Quince?

What sayest thou, bully Bottom?

What do you say, my fine fellow Bottom?

There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisbe that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself; which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that?

There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisbe that will never go down well. First, Pyramus has to draw a sword to kill himself, and the ladies can't stand that. How do you answer that?

SNOUT By’r lakin, a parlous fear.

SNOUT By Our Lady, that's a dangerous worry.

I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done.

I think in the end we'll have to leave the killing out.

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.

Not at all. I have a plan to put it all right. Write me a prologue, and let the prologue seem to say that we'll do no harm with our swords, and that Pyramus isn't really killed. And to make it even more reassuring, tell them that I, Pyramus, am not Pyramus but Bottom the weaver. That will stop them being frightened.

Well, we will have such a prologue; and it shall be written in eight and six.

All right, we'll have a prologue like that, and it will be written in alternating lines of eight and six syllables.

No, make it two more; let it be written in eight and eight.

No, make it two more; let it be written in eight and eight.

SNOUT Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion?

SNOUT Won't the ladies be frightened of the lion?

I fear it, I promise you.

I'm afraid of that, I assure you.

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 it.

Gentlemen, you ought to think it over among yourselves: to bring in — God protect us! — a lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing. For there's no more frightening wild bird alive than your lion, and we ought to see to it.

SNOUT Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion.

SNOUT So another prologue will have to say that he isn't a lion.

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.

No, you must say his name, and half his face must show through the lion's neck; and he himself must speak through it, saying this, or something to the same defect: 'Ladies,' or, 'Fair ladies, I would wish you,' or, 'I would request you,' or, 'I would beg you, not to be afraid, not to tremble: I'll answer for your safety with my life. If you think I've come here as a lion, it would be a sad thing for me. No, I am nothing of the sort; I am a man like other men.' And there, indeed, let him say his name, and tell them plainly that he is Snug the carpenter.

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 Thisbe meet by moonlight.

Well, that's how it will be. But there are two difficult things: that is, to bring the moonlight into a room, because, as you know, Pyramus and Thisbe meet by moonlight.

SNOUT Doth the moon shine that night we play our play?

SNOUT Does the moon shine on the night we perform our play?

A calendar, a calendar! Look in the almanack; find out moonshine, find out moonshine.

A calendar, a calendar! Look in the almanac; find out about moonlight, find out about moonlight.

Yes, it doth shine that night.

Yes, it does shine that night.

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.

Well then, you can leave one section of the window of the great hall where we perform open, and the moon can shine in through it.

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 Thisbe, says the story, did talk through the chink of a wall.

Yes, or else someone must come in carrying a bundle of thorn branches and a lantern, and say he has come to disfigure, or to represent, the character of Moonshine. Then there's another thing: we must have a wall in the great hall, because Pyramus and Thisbe, so the story says, talked through the crack in a wall.

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

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

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 Thisbe whisper.

Somebody or other must play Wall. And let him have some plaster, or some clay, or some coarse wall-covering on him, to show he's a wall; and let him hold his fingers like this, and Pyramus and Thisbe can whisper through that gap.

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 everyone according to his cue.

If that can be done, then everything's fine. Come, sit down, every single one of you, and rehearse your parts. Pyramus, you start: when you've said your speech, go into that thicket; and so on with everyone, each according to his cue.

What hempen homespuns 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.

What coarse country workmen are these, strutting about here, so close to where the Fairy Queen is sleeping? What, a play about to start? I'll be a listener — an actor too, maybe, if I see a reason for it.

Speak, Pyramus.—Thisbe, stand forth.

Speak, Pyramus. — Thisbe, come forward.

Thisbe, the flowers of odious savours sweet

Thisbe, the flowers of hateful smells are sweet —

Odours, odours.

Odours, odours.

. . . odours savours sweet. So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisbe dear. But hark, a voice! Stay thou but here awhile, And by and by I will to thee appear.

. . . the flowers' smells are sweet. So is your breath, my dearest, dear Thisbe. But listen, a voice! Just wait here a moment, and I'll come back to you shortly.

A stranger Pyramus than e’er played here!

A stranger Pyramus than was ever acted here!

Must I speak now?

Do I speak now?

Ay, marry, must you, For you must understand he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again.

Yes, indeed you do, because you must understand that he has only gone to find out about a noise he heard, and he's going to come back.

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.

Most shining Pyramus, with skin as white as a lily, as red as the red rose on the triumphant briar, liveliest young man, and also loveliest Jew, as faithful as the most faithful horse that would never tire, I'll meet you, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomb.

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 cue is past; it is ‘never tire.’

Ninus' tomb, man! And you mustn't say that yet. That's your answer to Pyramus. You're saying your whole part all at once, cues and everything. — Pyramus, come in! Your cue has gone past; it's 'never tire.'

O, As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire.

Oh — as faithful as the most faithful horse that would never tire.

If I were fair, Thisbe, I were only thine.

If I were handsome, Thisbe, I would be yours alone.

O monstrous! O strange! We are haunted. Pray, masters, fly, masters! Help!

Oh, monstrous! Oh, strange! We're bewitched. Please, gentlemen, run, gentlemen! Help!

I’ll follow you. I’ll lead you about a round, Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier; Sometime a horse I’ll be, sometime a hound, A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire; And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn, Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn.

I'll come after you. I'll lead you round and round, through swamp, through bush, through thicket, through briar. Sometimes I'll be a horse, sometimes a hound, a pig, a headless bear, sometimes a flame; and I'll neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn, like a horse, a hound, a pig, a bear, a fire, at every turn.

Why do they run away? This is a knavery of them to make me afeard.

Why are they running away? This is a trick of theirs to frighten me.

SNOUT O Bottom, thou art changed! What do I see on thee?

SNOUT Oh, Bottom, you're changed! What is that I see on you?

What do you see? You see an ass-head of your own, do you?

What do you see? You see a donkey's head of your own, do you?

Bless thee, Bottom! bless thee! Thou art translated.

God save you, Bottom! God save you! You've been transformed.

I see their knavery. This is to make an ass of me, to fright me, if they could. But I will not stir from this place, do what they can. I will walk up and down here, and I will sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid. [Sings.] The ousel cock, so black of hue, With orange-tawny bill, The throstle with his note so true, The wren with little quill.

I can see their trick. This is to make a fool of me, to scare me, if they could manage it. But I won't move from this spot, whatever they do. I'll walk up and down here, and I'll sing, so they'll hear that I'm not afraid. [He sings.] The male blackbird, so black in colour, with an orange-brown beak, the song thrush with his note so true, the wren with his small voice.

[Waking.] What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?

[Waking.] What angel is waking me from my bed of flowers?

[Sings.] The finch, the sparrow, and the lark, The plain-song cuckoo gray, Whose note full many a man doth mark, And dares not answer nay. for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a bird? Who would give a bird the lie, though he cry ‘cuckoo’ never so?

[He sings.] The finch, the sparrow, and the lark, the grey cuckoo with his simple tune, whose note many a man takes notice of and dares not answer no to. For, really, who would match his brains against such a foolish bird? Who would call a bird a liar, however much it cries 'cuckoo'?

I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again. Mine ear is much enamour’d of thy note. So is mine eye enthrallèd to thy shape; And thy fair virtue’s force perforce doth move me, On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee.

Please, kind mortal, sing again. My ear is quite in love with your voice. And my eye is just as captivated by your shape; and the power of your fine qualities forces me, at first sight, to say, to swear, that I love you.

Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that. And yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays. The more the pity that some honest neighbours will not make them friends. Nay, I can gleek upon occasion.

It seems to me, madam, that you would have very little reason for that. And yet, to tell the truth, reason and love keep very little company together these days. The greater the shame that some good neighbours won't make friends of them. No — I can make a joke when the occasion calls for it.

Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.

You are as wise as you are beautiful.

Not so, neither; but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn.

Not that either; but if I had brains enough to get out of this wood, I'd have enough to do what I need.

Out of this wood do not desire to go. Thou shalt remain here whether thou wilt or no. I am a spirit of no common rate. The summer still doth tend upon my state; And I do love thee: therefore, go with me. I’ll give thee fairies to attend on thee; And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep, And sing, while thou on pressèd flowers dost sleep. And I will purge thy mortal grossness so That thou shalt like an airy spirit go.— Peaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed!

Don't wish to leave this wood. You'll stay here whether you want to or not. I am a spirit of no ordinary rank. Summer always waits on my royal state; and I love you, so come with me. I'll give you fairies to wait on you, and they'll bring you jewels from the depths of the sea, and sing while you sleep on crushed flowers. And I'll purge away your human heaviness so that you can move like a spirit of the air. — Peaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! Mustardseed!

Ready.

Ready.

And I.

And I.

And I.

And I.

And I.

And I.

Where shall we go?

Where shall we go?

Be kind and courteous to this gentleman; Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes; Feed him with apricocks and dewberries, With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries; The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees, And for night-tapers, crop their waxen thighs, And light them at the fiery glow-worm’s eyes, To have my love to bed and to arise; And pluck the wings from painted butterflies, To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes. Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.

Be kind and polite to this gentleman; skip along wherever he walks and dance before his eyes; feed him with apricots and dewberries, with purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries; steal the honey-bags from the bumblebees, and for night-candles cut off their wax-covered legs and light them at the burning glow-worm's eyes, to see my love into bed and up again; and pull the wings off brightly coloured butterflies to fan the moonbeams away from his sleeping eyes. Bow to him, elves, and pay him your respects.

Hail, mortal!

Greetings, mortal!

Hail!

Greetings!

Hail!

Greetings!

Hail!

Greetings!

I cry your worships mercy, heartily.—I beseech your worship’s name.

I beg your honours' pardon, sincerely.—Please tell me your honour's name.

Cobweb.

Cobweb.

I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Cobweb. If I cut my finger, I shall make bold with you.—Your name, honest gentleman?

I'd like to get to know you better, good Master Cobweb. If I cut my finger, I'll take the liberty of using you.—Your name, worthy gentleman?

Peaseblossom.

Peaseblossom.

I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. Good Master Peaseblossom, I shall desire you of more acquaintance too.—Your name, I beseech you, sir?

Please give my regards to Mistress Squash, your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. Good Master Peaseblossom, I'd like to get to know you better too.—Your name, if you please, sir?

Mustardseed.

Mustardseed.

Good Master Mustardseed, I know your patience well. That same cowardly giant-like ox-beef hath devoured many a gentleman of your house. I promise you, your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now. I desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Mustardseed.

Good Master Mustardseed, I know how much you have to put up with. That same cowardly, giant-sized beef has swallowed up many a gentleman of your family. I promise you, your relatives have made my eyes water before now. I'd like to get to know you better, good Master Mustardseed.

Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower. The moon, methinks, looks with a watery eye, And when she weeps, weeps every little flower, Lamenting some enforced chastity. Tie up my love’s tongue, bring him silently.

Come, attend on him; take him to my private retreat. The moon, I think, is looking down with tear-filled eyes, and when she cries, every little flower cries too, mourning some virginity that has been taken by force. Tie up my love's tongue, and bring him along in silence.