A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 5, Scene 1

’Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.

It's strange, my Theseus, what these lovers talk about.

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 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 hath 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 a bear?

More strange than true. I can never believe these old fables or these fairy trifles. Lovers and madmen have such boiling brains, such shaping imaginations, that they grasp more than cool reason ever understands. The lunatic, the lover and the poet are all made up of imagination. One sees more devils than huge hell can hold — that is the madman. The lover, just as wild, sees Helen's beauty in the face of a gypsy. The poet's eye, rolling in a fine frenzy, looks from heaven to earth and from earth to heaven; and as imagination gives a body to the forms of things that are unknown, the poet's pen turns them into shapes, and gives to empty nothing a place to live and a name. Strong imagination plays such tricks that if it only senses some joy, it invents a bringer of that joy. Or at night, imagining some fear, how easily a bush is taken for a bear!

But all the story of the night told over, And all their minds transfigur’d so together, More witnesseth than fancy’s images, And grows to something of great constancy; But, howsoever, strange and admirable.

But the whole story of the night, told through, and all their minds transformed together in the same way, proves more than the pictures of fantasy, and grows into something solid and consistent — but, in any case, strange and wonderful.

Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth. Joy, gentle friends, joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts!

Here come the lovers, full of joy and merriment. Joy, kind friends — may joy and fresh days of love go with your hearts!

More than to us Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed!

May more than we have attend your royal walks, your table, your bed!

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.

Come now, what masques, what dances shall we have to pass away this long age of three hours between our after-supper and bedtime? Where is our usual master of entertainment? What revels are being prepared? Is there no play to ease the pain of a torturing hour? Call Philostrate.

Here, mighty Theseus.

Here, mighty Theseus.

Say, what abridgment have you for this evening? What masque? What music? How shall we beguile The lazy time, if not with some delight?

Tell me, what pastime have you got to shorten this evening? What masque? What music? How shall we cheat the lazy time, if not with some pleasure?

There is a brief how many sports are ripe. Make choice of which your Highness will see first.

Here is a list of how many entertainments are ready. Choose which one your Highness will see first.

[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 When I from Thebes came last a conqueror. ‘The thrice three Muses mourning for the death Of learning, late deceas’d in beggary.’ That is some satire, keen and critical, Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony. ‘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?

[Reads] 'The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung by an Athenian eunuch to the harp.' We'll have none of that. I've already told my love that story, in honour of my kinsman Hercules. 'The riot of the drunken Bacchanals, tearing the Thracian singer apart in their fury?' That is an old piece, and it was performed when I last came home from Thebes a conqueror. 'The three times three Muses mourning for the death of learning, lately dead in poverty.' That is some satire, sharp and critical, not suitable for a wedding celebration. 'A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus and his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.' Merry and tragic? Tedious and brief? That is hot ice and amazingly strange snow. How shall we find the harmony in 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 player fitted. And tragical, my noble lord, it is. For Pyramus therein doth kill himself, Which, when I saw rehears’d, I must confess, Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears The passion of loud laughter never shed.

There is a play, my lord, about ten words long, which is the briefest play I have ever known; but even those ten words, my lord, make it too long, and that makes it tedious. For in the whole play there is not one suitable word, not one actor fit for his part. And tragic, my noble lord, it is, for Pyramus in it kills himself. When I saw it rehearsed, I must admit, it made my eyes water — but with merrier tears than the passion of loud laughter ever shed.

What are they that do play it?

Who are the men who perform it?

Hard-handed men that work in Athens here, Which never labour’d in their minds till now; And now have toil’d their unbreath’d memories With this same play against your nuptial.

Rough-handed workmen here in Athens, who have never worked with their minds until now; and now they have strained their unexercised memories with this play for your wedding.

And we will hear it.

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 stretch’d and conn’d with cruel pain To do you service.

No, my noble lord, it is not for you. I have heard it right through, and it is nothing, nothing at all — unless you can find amusement in their intentions, stretched to the utmost and learned by heart with painful effort, to serve you.

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.

I will hear that play; for nothing can ever be wrong when plainness and devotion offer it. Go, bring them in — and take your seats, ladies.

I love not to see wretchedness o’ercharged, And duty in his service perishing.

I don't like to see poor wretches overloaded, and devotion dying in its own service.

Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing.

Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing.

He says they can do nothing in this kind.

He says they can do nothing of this sort.

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 practis’d accent in their fears, And, in conclusion, dumbly have broke off, Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet, Out of this silence yet I pick’d 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.

Then we are the kinder, to thank them for nothing. Our sport will be to accept their mistakes; and where poor devotion cannot succeed, generous consideration takes it for the effort, not the achievement. Where I have travelled, great scholars have planned to greet me with prepared speeches of welcome; and I have seen them shiver and turn pale, stop short in the middle of sentences, choke their practised delivery out of fear, and in the end break off in silence, never giving me a welcome at all. Believe me, sweet, out of that silence I still picked a welcome; and in the modesty of frightened duty I read as much as I do from the rattling tongue of bold and impudent eloquence. So love, and tongue-tied simplicity, say most to my understanding when they say least.

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

If it please your grace, the Prologue is ready.

Let him approach.

Let him come forward.

PROLOGUE 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.

PROLOGUE: 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 only out of spite. We do not come, as meaning to please you, our true intention is. All for your delight we are not here. That you should here be sorry, the actors are ready, and from their performance you shall learn all that you are likely to learn.

This fellow doth not stand upon points.

This fellow doesn't bother about punctuation.

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.

He has ridden through his prologue like an untrained colt: he doesn't know how to stop. A good lesson, my lord: it isn't enough to speak, you must speak correctly.

Indeed he hath played on this prologue like a child on a recorder; a sound, but not in government.

Indeed he has played on this prologue the way a child plays a recorder — a sound, but with no control.

His speech was like a tangled chain; nothing impaired, but all disordered. Who is next?

His speech was like a tangled chain: nothing broken, but everything out of order. Who comes next?

PROLOGUE 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 Thisbe is certain. This man, with lime 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 lantern, 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 Thisbe, 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 Thisbe’s mantle slain; Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade, He bravely broach’d his boiling bloody breast; And Thisbe, 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.

PROLOGUE: Ladies and gentlemen, you may be puzzled by this performance; but go on wondering, until the truth makes everything clear. This man is Pyramus, if you want to know; this beautiful lady is Thisbe, certainly. This man, with plaster and rough mortar, represents Wall — that wicked wall that kept these lovers apart; and through Wall's crack, the poor souls, they are glad to whisper, and let nobody be surprised at that. This man, with a lantern, a dog and a bush of thorn, represents Moonshine; for, if you want to know, it was by moonlight that these lovers thought it no shame to meet at Ninus' tomb, there to court each other. This dreadful beast (whose name is Lion) frightened away — or rather terrified — the faithful Thisbe, who arrived first that night; and as she fled she let her cloak fall, which foul Lion stained with his bloody mouth. Soon comes Pyramus, a sweet, tall young man, and finds his faithful Thisbe's cloak killed; at which, with a blade, with a bloody guilty blade, he bravely pierced his boiling bloody breast. And Thisbe, waiting in the shade of the mulberry tree, drew his dagger and died. For all the rest, let Lion, Moonshine, Wall and the two lovers tell it at length while they are here.

I wonder if the lion be to speak.

I wonder whether the lion is going to speak.

No wonder, my lord. One lion may, when many asses do.

No wonder about it, my lord. One lion may speak, when so 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 Thisbe, 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.

In this same play it happens that I, one Snout by name, represent a wall — and the kind of wall I'd like you to imagine had a cracked hole or gap in it, through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisbe, often whispered very secretly. This clay, this rough mortar and this stone show that I am that very wall; that's the truth of it. And this is the crack, on the right and on the left, through which the frightened lovers are to whisper.

Would you desire lime and hair to speak better?

Could you wish plaster and hair to speak any better?

It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord.

It is the wittiest partition I ever heard hold a conversation, my lord.

Pyramus draws near the wall; silence.

Pyramus is coming up to the wall. Quiet.

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 Thisbe’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.

Oh grim-looking night! Oh night with a colour so black! Oh night, which always is whenever day is not! Oh night, oh night, alas, alas, alas, I'm afraid my Thisbe has forgotten her promise! And you, oh wall, oh sweet, oh lovely wall, that stand between her father's land and mine — you wall, oh wall, oh sweet and lovely wall, show me your crack, so I can peep through it with my eyes.

Thanks, courteous wall: Jove shield thee well for this! But what see I? No Thisbe do I see. O wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss, Curs’d be thy stones for thus deceiving me!

Thank you, polite wall — may Jove protect you well for this! But what do I see? I see no Thisbe. Oh wicked wall, through whom I see no happiness, cursed be your stones for deceiving me like this!

The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again.

The wall, I think, since it can feel, ought to curse him back.

No, in truth, sir, he should not. ‘Deceiving me’ is Thisbe’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.

No, truly, sir, he shouldn't. 'Deceiving me' is Thisbe's cue: she is to come on now, and I am to spot her through the wall. You'll see it will happen exactly as I told you. There she comes.

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.

Oh wall, very often you have heard my moaning, for keeping my handsome Pyramus and me apart. My cherry lips have often kissed your stones, your stones fastened into you with plaster and hair.

I see a voice; now will I to the chink, To spy an I can hear my Thisbe’s face. Thisbe?

I see a voice. Now I'll go to the crack, to see if I can hear my Thisbe's face. Thisbe?

My love thou art, my love I think.

You are my love, my love I think.

Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover’s grace; And like Limander am I trusty still.

Think what you like, I am your lover's grace; and like Limander I am still faithful.

And I like Helen, till the fates me kill.

And I am like Helen, until the fates kill me.

Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true.

Shafalus was not so true to Procrus.

As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you.

As Shafalus was to Procrus, so am I to you.

O kiss me through the hole of this vile wall.

Oh kiss me through the hole in this foul wall.

I kiss the wall’s hole, not your lips at all.

I'm kissing the wall's hole, not your lips at all.

Wilt thou at Ninny’s tomb meet me straightway?

Will you meet me at Ninny's tomb right away?

’Tide life, ’tide death, I come without delay.

Come life, come death, I'll be there without delay.

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

So I, Wall, have finished my part; and, that done, Wall goes away.

Now is the mural down between the two neighbours.

Now the wall between the two neighbours is down.

No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear without warning.

There's no help for it, my lord, when walls are so headstrong as to listen without being warned.

This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard.

This is the silliest stuff I have ever heard.

The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them.

The best of this kind are only shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination improves them.

It must be your imagination then, and not theirs.

Then it has to be your imagination, and not theirs.

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.

If we imagine no worse of them than they do of themselves, they may pass for excellent men. Here come two noble beasts, a man and a 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.

You, ladies, you whose gentle hearts are frightened by the smallest monstrous mouse that creeps across a floor, may now, possibly, both quake and tremble here, when a rough lion roars in wildest fury. Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am neither a fierce lion nor a lioness either; for if I came into this place as a lion looking for a fight, it would go badly for my life.

A very gentle beast, and of a good conscience.

A very gentle beast, and one with a good conscience.

The very best at a beast, my lord, that e’er I saw.

The very best at being a beast, my lord, that I ever saw.

This lion is a very fox for his valour.

This lion is a real fox for courage.

True; and a goose for his discretion.

True, and a goose for his good judgment.

Not so, my lord, for his valour cannot carry his discretion, and the fox carries the goose.

Not so, my lord, because his valour can't carry his judgment, and the fox carries the goose.

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.

His judgment, I'm sure, can't carry his valour, because the goose doesn't carry the fox. Fine; leave it to his judgment, and let's listen to the moon.

This lanthorn doth the hornèd moon present.

This lantern represents the horned moon.

He should have worn the horns on his head.

He should have worn the horns on his head.

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

He's no crescent, and his horns are invisible, inside the full circle.

This lanthorn doth the hornèd moon present; Myself the man i’ the moon do seem to be.

This lantern represents the horned moon; I myself seem to be the man in the moon.

This is the greatest error of all the rest; the man should be put into the lantern. How is it else the man i’ the moon?

This is the biggest mistake of all of them; the man should be put inside the lantern. How else is he the man in the moon?

He dares not come there for the candle, for you see, it is already in snuff.

He daren't go in there because of the candle, for you see, it's already smoking and needs snuffing.

I am aweary of this moon. Would he would change!

I'm tired of this moon. I wish 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.

By the small light of his judgment it seems he's on the wane; but still, out of courtesy, and by all reason, we have to wait out his time.

Proceed, Moon.

Carry on, Moon.

All that I have to say, is to tell you that the lantern is the moon; I the man i’ the moon; this thorn-bush my thorn-bush; and this dog my dog.

All I have to say is to tell you that the lantern is the moon; I'm the man in the moon; this thorn-bush is my thorn-bush; and this dog is my dog.

Why, all these should be in the lantern, for all these are in the moon. But silence; here comes Thisbe.

Why, all of these should be inside the lantern, since all of them are in the moon. But quiet; here comes Thisbe.

This is old Ninny’s tomb. Where is my love?

This is old Ninny's tomb. Where is my love?

Oh!

Oh!

Well roared, Lion.

Well roared, Lion.

Well run, Thisbe.

Well run, Thisbe.

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

Well shone, Moon. Really, the moon shines very gracefully.

Well moused, Lion.

Well shaken, Lion, like a cat with a mouse.

And then came Pyramus.

And then Pyramus came.

And so the lion vanished.

And so the lion disappeared.

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 Thisbe 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, stained with blood? Approach, ye Furies fell! O Fates, come, come; Cut thread and thrum; Quail, rush, conclude, and quell!

Sweet Moon, I thank you for your sunny beams; I thank you, Moon, for shining so brightly now; because by your gracious golden, glittering gleams, I hope to catch sight of the truest Thisbe. But wait! Oh, cruelty! But look, poor knight, what dreadful grief is here! Eyes, do you see? How can it be? Oh lovely duck! Oh dear! Your good cloak, what, stained with blood? Come near, you fierce Furies! Oh Fates, come, come; cut the thread and the loose ends; crush, hurry, finish, and destroy!

This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.

This grief, together with the death of a dear friend, would almost make a man look sad.

Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.

Curse my heart, but I do feel sorry for the man.

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 liv’d, that lov’d, that lik’d, that look’d with cheer. Come, tears, confound! Out, sword, and wound The pap of Pyramus; Ay, that left pap, Where heart doth hop: 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! Now die, die, die, die, die.

Oh why, Nature, did you make lions, since a vile lion has ravaged my darling here? Who is—no, no—who was the loveliest lady that ever lived, that loved, that liked, that looked about cheerfully. Come, tears, destroy me! Out, sword, and wound the breast of Pyramus; yes, that left breast, where the heart goes hopping: so I die, like this, like this, like this. Now I am dead, now I have flown away; my soul is up in the sky. Tongue, lose your light! Moon, take your flight! Now die, die, die, die, die.

No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one.

No die for him, but a single ace, since he is only one man.

Less than an ace, man; for he is dead, he is nothing.

Less than an ace, man; since he's dead, he's nothing.

With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover and prove an ass.

With a surgeon's help he might still recover and prove himself an ass.

How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover?

How does it happen that Moonshine has left before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover?

She will find him by starlight.

She'll find him by starlight.

Here she comes, and her passion ends the play.

Here she comes, and her outburst of grief ends the play.

Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus. I hope she will be brief.

I don't think she should use a long one for a Pyramus like that. I hope she'll be brief.

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!

A speck of dust would tip the scales as to which is better, Pyramus or Thisbe: he as a man, God protect us; she as a woman, God bless us!

She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes.

She has spotted him already with those sweet eyes.

And thus she means, videlicet—

And so she laments, namely—

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; And farewell, friends. Thus Thisbe ends. Adieu, adieu, adieu.

Asleep, my love? What, dead, my dove? Oh Pyramus, get up, speak, speak. Completely silent? Dead, dead? A tomb must cover your sweet eyes. These lily lips, this cherry nose, these yellow cowslip cheeks, are gone, are gone! Lovers, moan aloud; his eyes were as green as leeks. Oh you Three Sisters, come, come to me, with hands as pale as milk; dip them in blood, since you have cut through his silken thread with your shears. Tongue, not a word: come, faithful sword, come, blade, stain my breast with blood; and farewell, friends. This is how Thisbe ends. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead.

Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead.

Ay, and Wall too.

Yes, and Wall as well.

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?

No, I promise you; the wall that separated their fathers is down. Would you like to see the epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance performed by 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 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.

No epilogue, please; your play needs no apology. Never apologise; when all the actors are dead, there's nobody left to blame. Indeed, if the man who wrote 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 remarkably performed. But come on, your Bergomask; forget your epilogue.

The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve. Lovers, to bed; ’tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outsleep the coming morn As much as we this night have overwatch’d. This palpable-gross play hath well beguil’d The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed. A fortnight hold we this solemnity In nightly revels and new jollity.

The iron tongue of midnight has counted out twelve. Lovers, off to bed; it's almost the fairies' time. I'm afraid we'll oversleep tomorrow morning as much as we have stayed up tonight. This thoroughly clumsy play has nicely passed the slow crawl of the night. Sweet friends, to bed. We'll keep up this celebration for two weeks with nightly parties and fresh merriment.

Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task fordone. Now the wasted brands do glow, Whilst the screech-owl, 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 Hecate’s team From the presence of the sun, Following darkness like a dream, Now are frolic; not a mouse Shall disturb this hallow’d house. I am sent with broom before, To sweep the dust behind the door.

Now the hungry lion roars, and the wolf howls at the moon; while the exhausted ploughman snores, all worn out by his weary work. Now the burnt-out logs glow, while the screech-owl, screeching loudly, reminds the miserable person lying in sorrow of a burial shroud. Now it is the time of night when the graves, all gaping wide, each let out their ghost to glide along the churchyard paths. And we fairies, who run alongside the chariot team of the triple Hecate, away from the presence of the sun, following darkness like a dream, are now merry; not a mouse shall disturb this blessed house. I've been sent ahead with a broom, to sweep the dust from behind the door.

Through the house give glimmering light, By the dead and drowsy fire. Every elf and fairy sprite Hop as light as bird from brier, And this ditty after me, Sing and dance it trippingly.

Spread a shimmering light through the house, from the dead and sleepy fire. Every elf and fairy spirit, hop as lightly as a bird from a briar, and this song after me, sing it and dance it with light steps.

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.

First go through your song by heart, a trilling note for every word; hand in hand, with fairy grace, we will sing and bless this place.

Now, until the break of day, Through this house each fairy stray. To the best bride-bed will we, Which by us shall blessèd 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, hare-lip, nor scar, Nor mark prodigious, such as are Despised in nativity, Shall upon their children be. With this field-dew consecrate, Every fairy take his gait, And each several chamber bless, Through this palace, with sweet peace; And the owner of it blest. Ever shall it in safety rest, Trip away. Make no stay; Meet me all by break of day.

Now, until daybreak, let every fairy wander through this house. We will go to the finest bridal bed, which we will bless; and the children conceived there shall always be lucky. So all three couples shall always be true in love; and the flaws of Nature's hand shall not appear in their children: no mole, cleft lip, or scar, or ominous birthmark, the kind that is despised at birth, shall be on their children. With this consecrated dew from the fields, let every fairy go on his way, and bless each separate room throughout this palace with sweet peace; and let the owner of it be blessed. It shall always rest in safety. Skip away. Don't linger; all meet me by daybreak.

If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber’d 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 unearnèd luck Now to ’scape 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.

If we shadows have given offence, just think this, and everything is put right: that you were only dozing here while these visions appeared. And this feeble, pointless story, giving no more than a dream does—ladies and gentlemen, don't condemn it. If you forgive us, we will do better. And, as I am an honest Puck, if we have the undeserved good luck to escape the hiss of the serpent's tongue now, we will make it up to you before long; otherwise call Puck a liar. So, good night to you all. Give me your applause, if we are friends, and Robin will make amends.