A Midsummer Night's Dream (Folio 1, 1623)
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A Midsommer nights Dreame.
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¶way?
¶This. Tide life, tide death, I come without delay.
¶And being done, thus Wall away doth go.
Exit Clow.
¶Neighbors.
¶full, to heare without vvarning.
2020two noble beasts, in a man and a Lion.
¶
Enter Lyon and Moone-shine.
¶May now perchance, both quake and tremble heere,
2025When Lion rough in wildest rage doth roare.
¶Then know that I, one Snug the Ioyner am
¶A Lion fell, nor else no Lions dam:
¶Into this place, 'twere pittie of my life.
¶Lis. This Lion is a verie Fox for his valor.
¶for the Goose carries not the Fox. It is well; leaue it to
¶his discretion, and let vs hearken to the Moone.
2040sent.
¶within the circumference.
¶Should be put into the Lanthorne. How is it els the man
¶i'th Moone?
¶Dem. He dares not come there for the candle.
¶Dut. I am vvearie of this Moone; vvould he would
¶change.
¶Lys. Proceed Moone.
¶Lanthorne is the Moone; I, the man in the Moone; this
¶they are in the Moone. But silence, heere comes Thisby
.
¶
Enter Thisby.
¶Lyon. Oh.
2065
The Lion roares, Thisby runs off.
¶Du. Well run Thisby.
¶Truly the Moone shines with a good grace.
2070Du. Wel mouz'd Lion.
¶Dem. And then came Piramus.
¶
Enter Piramus.
¶For by thy gracious, golden, glittering beames,
¶What dreadful dole is heere?
2080Eyes do you see! How can it be!
¶O dainty Ducke: O Deere!
¶Thy mantle good; what staind with blood!
¶Approch you Furies fell:
¶O Fates! come, come: Cut thred and thrum,
2085Quaile, crush, conclude, and quell.
¶Would go neere to make a man looke sad.
2090Since Lion vilde hath heere deflour'd my deere:
¶Which is: no, no, which was the fairest Dame
¶That liu'd, that lou'd, that lik'd, that look'd with cheere.
¶Come teares, confound: Out sword, and wound
¶The pap of Piramus:
2095I, that left pap, where heart doth hop;
¶Thus dye I, thus, thus, thus.
¶Tongue lose thy light, Moone take thy flight,
¶Now dye, dye, dye, dye, dye.
¶thing.
¶Du. With the helpe of a Surgeon, he might yet reco-
¶Thisby comes backe, and findes her Louer.
¶
Enter Thisby.
¶Dem. A Moth wil turne the ballance, which Piramus
¶which Thisby is the better.
¶O Piramus arise:
¶Speake, Speake. Quite dumbe? Dead, dead? A tombe
¶Are gone, are gone: Louers make mone:
¶His eyes were greene as Leekes.
2125With hands as pale as Milke,
¶Come blade, my brest imbrue:
O3
And
