Original
Modern English
’Tis strange my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.
It’s strange, my Theseus, that 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 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!
Stranger than true: I can never believe These old myths, or these fairy tales. Lovers and madmen have such heated minds, Such wild imaginations, that they grasp More than reason can ever understand. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet Are all made of imagination: One sees more demons than hell can hold, That’s the madman: the lover, just as crazy, Sees Helen’s beauty in a face from Egypt: The poet’s eye, in a frenzy of passion, Glances from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And as imagination brings to life Things that are unknown, the poet’s pen Shapes them into forms and gives to nothing A place and a name. Such tricks has strong imagination, That if it wants to see joy, It imagines a bringer of that joy; Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy it is for a bush to be thought a bear!
But all the story of the night told over, And all their minds transfigured so together, More witnesseth than fancy’s images And grows to something of great constancy; But, howsoever, strange and admirable.
But all the story of the night, told over, And all their minds transformed so together, Proves more than just the images of fancy And grows into something solid; But, still, strange and wonderful.
Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.
Here come the lovers, full of joy and laughter.
Joy, gentle friends! joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts!
Joy, dear friends! joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts!
More than to us Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed!
More than to us Wait in your royal halls, 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 the long three hours Between our after-dinner and bedtime? Where is our usual manager of fun? What celebrations are planned? Is there no play, To ease the pain of a long hour? Call Philostrate.
Here, mighty Theseus.
Here, mighty Theseus.
Say, what abridgement have you for this evening? What masque? what music? How shall we beguile The lazy time, if not with some delight?
Tell me, what entertainment do you have for this evening? What masque? What music? How shall we pass The time, if not with some amusement?
There is a brief how many sports are ripe: Make choice of which your highness will see first.
There is a list of the sports that are ready: Choose which one your highness wants to 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.
[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, In honor of my relative 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 chaos of the drunken Bacchus followers, Ripping apart the Thracian singer in their fury.’ That’s an old idea; and it was performed When I returned from Thebes as a victor.
’The thrice three Muses mourning for the death Of Learning, late deceased in beggary.’ That is some satire, keen and critical, Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony.
’The three Muses crying for the death Of Learning, recently dead in poverty.’ That’s some sharp satire, critical and harsh, Not something that fits a wedding 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?
’A boring short play about young Pyramus And his love Thisbe; a very tragic comedy.’ Funny and tragic! Boring and short! That’s like hot ice and strange snow. How can we make sense of this contradiction?
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 rehearsed, I must confess, Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears The passion of loud laughter never shed.
There’s a play, my lord, that’s about ten words long, Which is as short as I’ve ever seen a play; But with only ten words, my lord, it’s too long, Making it boring; because in the whole play Not one word is right, not one actor is suited: And tragic, my noble lord, it is; For Pyramus there kills himself. When I saw it rehearsed, I’ll admit, It made my eyes water; but the laughter That came from the play’s passion shed more tears.
What are they that do play it?
Who are the actors in this play?
Hard-handed men that work in Athens here, Which never labour’d in their minds till now, And now have toil’d their unbreathed memories With this same play, against your nuptial.
Hard-working men from Athens, Who’ve never used their minds until now, And now have tired their poor memories With this play, in honor of your wedding.
And we will hear it.
Then we’ll 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’s not for you: I’ve heard it already, And it’s nothing, absolutely nothing; Unless you find entertainment in their attempts, Which are extremely forced and learned with great 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 want to hear that play; For nothing can go wrong, When it’s offered with sincerity and duty. Go, bring them in: and take your places, ladies.
I love not to see wretchedness o’er charged And duty in his service perishing.
I don’t like to see misery piled on And duty wearing itself out in service.
Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing.
Don’t worry, my dear, you won’t see anything like that.
He says they can do nothing in this kind.
He says they can’t do anything like that.
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. 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.
We’re being kind by thanking them for nothing. Our fun will be to take advantage of their mistakes: And where poor duty fails, noble respect Takes over with strength, not merit. In places I’ve been, great scholars have planned To greet me with rehearsed welcomes; I’ve seen them shiver and look pale, Stop in the middle of their sentences, Struggle with their practiced accent out of fear And end up breaking off, not even giving me a proper greeting. Trust me, sweet, From this silence, I still took a welcome; And in the humbleness of nervous duty I understood as much as I would from the loud speech Of bold and reckless eloquence. So love, and quiet simplicity Speak the most, to my understanding.
So please your grace, the Prologue is address’d.
Your grace, the Prologue is ready.
Let him approach.
Let him come forward.
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 contest 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.
If we offend, it’s with our good intentions. You should think that we’re not here to offend, But with good intentions. To show our simple skills, That’s really the start of our end. So, understand that we’re here not to disrespect. We’re not here to challenge you, Our true aim is just for your enjoyment. We’re not here so that you’ll regret it, The actors are here, and through their performance You’ll understand all you need to know.
This fellow doth not stand upon points.
This guy doesn’t care about details.
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’s given his prologue like a wild horse; he doesn’t know when to stop. A good lesson, my lord: it’s not enough to speak, but to speak the truth.
Indeed he hath played on his prologue like a child on a recorder; a sound, but not in government.
Indeed, he’s played his prologue like a child playing a recorder; it makes noise, but isn’t controlled.
His speech, was like a tangled chain; nothing impaired, but all disordered. Who is next?
His speech was like a tangled chain; nothing missing, but all disorganized. Who’s next?
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 Thisby 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 lanthorn, 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 Thisby, 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 Thisby’s mantle slain: Whereat, with blade, with bloody blameful blade, He bravely broach’d is boiling bloody breast; And Thisby, 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.
Gentlefolk, maybe you’re wondering about this show; But keep wondering, until the truth makes everything clear. This man is Pyramus, if you want to know; This beautiful lady is definitely Thisbe. This man, with lime and rough plaster, is playing The Wall, that terrible Wall that separated these lovers; And through Wall’s crack, poor souls, they’re happy To whisper. Don’t be surprised by this. This man, with a lantern, dog, and thorn bush, Is representing Moonshine; for, if you want to know, These lovers thought no less of each other by moonlight And met at Ninus’ tomb, there to woo. This fierce beast, called Lion, Scared off the faithful Thisby when she came first by night, Or rather, frightened her; And as she ran away, she dropped her cloak, Which Lion, with his bloody mouth, stained. Soon, Pyramus, a sweet and tall youth, Came upon his faithful Thisby’s cloak lying there, And, seeing it, he took out his sword, and with his bloody blade, He tragically stabbed himself in his bleeding chest; And Thisby, hiding in the mulberry shade, Drew his dagger and died. For the rest of the story, Let the Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and the lovers Continue their tale while they stay here.
I wonder if the lion be to speak.
I wonder if the lion is supposed to speak.
No wonder, my lord: one lion may, when many asses do.
No surprise, my lord: one lion can speak, when many donkeys 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 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 short play, it happens That I, a guy named Snout, play a wall; And it’s a wall, just so you can imagine, That has a crack or hole in it, Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby, Would often whisper very secretly. This dirt, this plaster, and this stone show That I am the wall; that’s the truth: And this is the hole, right and left, Through which the lovers are whispering.
Would you desire lime and hair to speak better?
Do you think adding lime and hair would make it sound better?
It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord.
It’s the funniest division I’ve ever heard discussed, my lord.
Pyramus draws near the wall: silence!
Pyramus is approaching 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 Thisby’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 dark night! Oh night so black! Oh night, you’re always here when day is gone! Oh night, oh night! Alas, alas, alas, I fear Thisby’s promise has been forgotten! And you, oh wall, oh sweet, oh lovely wall, That stands between her father’s land and mine! You wall, oh wall, oh sweet and lovely wall, Show me your crack, so I can peek through with my eyes!
Thanks, courteous wall: Jove shield thee well for this! But what see I? No Thisby do I see. O wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss! Cursed be thy stones for thus deceiving me!
Thank you, kind wall: may Jupiter protect you for this! But wait, what do I see? I don’t see Thisby. Oh wicked wall, through which I see no happiness! Damn your stones for deceiving me like this!
The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again.
The wall, I think, should curse back, since it’s aware of what’s happening.
No, in truth, sir, he should not. ’Deceiving me’ is Thisby’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, really, sir, it shouldn’t. "Deceiving me" is Thisby’s line: she’s supposed to enter now, and I’m supposed to spy on her through the wall. You’ll see, it’ll happen exactly as I said. 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, you’ve often heard my cries, For separating my beautiful Pyramus and me! My red lips have often kissed your stones, Your stones, held together with lime and hair.
I see a voice: now will I to the chink, To spy an I can hear my Thisby’s face. Thisby!
I hear a voice: now I will go to the hole, To see if I can hear my Thisby’s face. Thisby!
My love thou art, my love I think.
My love, you are, my love, I think.
Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover’s grace; And, like Limander, am I trusty still.
Think whatever you want, I am still your lover; And, like Limander, I am loyal forever.
And I like Helen, till the Fates me kill.
And I, like Helen, until fate kills me.
Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true.
Not as faithful as Shafalus was to Procrus.
As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you.
As Shafalus was to Procrus, I am to you.
O kiss me through the hole of this vile wall!
Oh, kiss me through this horrible hole in the wall!
I kiss the wall’s hole, not your lips at all.
I kiss the hole in the wall, not your lips at all.
Wilt thou at Ninny’s tomb meet me straightway?
Will you meet me right away at Ninny’s tomb?
’Tide life, ’tide death, I come without delay.
Whether it’s life or death, I’ll come without delay.
Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; And, being done, thus Wall away doth go.
So, Wall, I’ve done my part; And now, I’m done, so Wall goes away.
Now is the mural down between the two neighbours.
Now the wall is down between the two neighbors.
No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear without warning.
There’s no fixing it, my lord, when walls are so stubborn and don’t listen to warnings.
This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard.
This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.
The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them.
The best of these kinds are just shadows, and the worst aren’t any worse, if we use our imagination to fix them.
It must be your imagination then, and not theirs.
It must be your imagination, 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 them no worse than they imagine themselves, they might be considered excellent men. Here come two noble creatures— 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 kind hearts are scared By the tiniest mouse that creeps along the floor, Might now perhaps both shake and tremble here, When the lion, wild with rage, roars. Then know that I, Snug the carpenter, am A fierce lion, but no lion’s mother; For, if I were to come in here as a lion And fight, it would be a shame for my life.
A very gentle beast, of a good conscience.
A very gentle creature, with a clear conscience.
The very best at a beast, my lord, that e’er I saw.
The best beast, my lord, that I’ve ever seen.
This lion is a very fox for his valour.
This lion is a real coward when it comes to courage.
True; and a goose for his discretion.
True; and a fool when it comes to sense.
Not so, my lord; for his valour cannot carry his discretion; and the fox carries the goose.
Not so, my lord; for his courage can’t outweigh his sense, and the fox outsmarts 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 sense, I’m sure, can’t match his courage; because the goose outsmarts the fox. It’s fine: leave it to his judgment, and let’s listen to the moon.
This lanthorn doth the horned moon present;--
This lantern shows the horned moon;--
He should have worn the horns on his head.
He should have worn horns on his head.
He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the circumference.
He’s not a crescent, and his horns are hidden within the circle.
This lanthorn doth the horned moon present; Myself the man i’ the moon do seem to be.
This lantern shows 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 lanthorn. How is it else the man i’ the moon?
This is the biggest mistake of all: the man should be inside the lantern. How else can he be the man in the moon?
He dares not come there for the candle; for, you see, it is already in snuff.
He won’t go in there because of the candle; you see, it’s already burning down.
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.
It looks like, from his weak judgment, he’s fading; but still, out of courtesy, we must wait for the right time.
Proceed, Moon.
Go on, Moon.
All that I have to say, is, to tell you that the lanthorn is the moon; I, the man in the moon; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog.
All I have to say is, let me tell you that the lantern is the moon; I’m 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 Thisbe.
Why, all these should be in the lantern; because all these 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?
[Roaring] Oh--
[Roaring] 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. Truly, the moon shines with a good grace.
Well moused, Lion.
Well done, Lion.
And so the lion vanished.
And then the lion disappeared.
And then came Pyramus.
And then Pyramus came.
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, 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, stain’d with blood! Approach, ye Furies fell! O Fates, come, come, Cut thread and thrum; Quail, crush, conclude, and quell!
Sweet Moon, I thank you for your bright rays; I thank you, Moon, for shining so brightly now; For, by your kind, golden, glittering light, I hope to see my true love, Thisbe. But wait, oh no! But look, poor knight, What terrible misfortune is this? Eyes, do you see? How can this be? Oh, delicate darling! Oh no! Your mantle, good, What, stained with blood! Come forth, you evil Furies! Oh Fates, come, come, Cut the thread and trim; Fall, crush, finish, and destroy!
This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.
This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would almost make a man look sad.
Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.
I swear, I 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 lived, that loved, that liked, that look’d with cheer. Come, tears, confound; Out, sword, and wound The pap of Pyramus; Ay, that left pap, Where heart doth hop:
Oh, why, Nature, did you create lions? Since the vile lion has killed my beloved: Who was—no, no—who used to be the most beautiful lady That lived, that loved, that liked, that smiled with joy. Come on, tears, overwhelm me; Out, sword, and stab Pyramus’s chest; Yes, that chest, Where my heart beats:
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:
This is how I die, this way, this way, this way. Now I am dead, Now I am gone; My soul is in the sky: Tongue, lose your power; Moon, take your flight:
Now die, die, die, die, die.
Now die, die, die, die, die.
No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one.
No, he doesn’t die, but he loses an ace; because he is only one.
Less than an ace, man; for he is dead; he is nothing.
Less than an ace, man; he’s dead; he’s nothing.
With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover, and prove an ass.
With the help of a doctor, he might still recover, and turn out to be a fool.
How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover?
How come Moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes back to find her lover?
She will find him by starlight. Here she comes; and her passion ends the play.
She’ll find him by the starlight. Here she comes, and her emotions will end the play.
Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus: I hope she will be brief.
I think she shouldn’t use a long speech for such a Pyramus: I hope she’ll be quick.
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 small thing will tip the scale, which Pyramus, which Thisbe, is the better; he for a man, God help us; she for a woman, God bless her.
She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes.
She has already spotted him with those sweet eyes.
And thus she means, videlicet:--
And this is what she means, 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 My 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:
Asleep, my love? What, dead, my dove? Oh Pyramus, get up! Speak, speak. Are you completely silent? Dead, dead? A tomb Must cover your sweet eyes. These lips of mine, This cherry-red nose, These yellow cheeks like cowslips, Are gone, are gone: Lovers, mourn: His eyes were as green as leeks. Oh, Sisters Three, Come, come to me, With hands as pale as milk; Lay them in blood, Since you have cut With scissors his thread of life. Tongue, not a word: Come, trusty sword; Come, blade, stain my chest:
And, farewell, friends; Thus Thisby ends: Adieu, adieu, adieu.
And goodbye, 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 too.
[Starting up] No 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?
[Jumping up] No, I assure you; the wall is down that separated their families. Would you like to see the final speech, or hear a Bergomask dance between two of our group?
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. 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 final speech, please; your play doesn’t need any excuse. Never excuse; because when the actors are all dead, no one will need to be blamed. But if the man who wrote it had played Pyramus and hanged himself with Thisbe’s garter, it would have been a perfect tragedy: and it is, really; and very well done. But come, do your Bergomask: leave the final speech out.
The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve: Lovers, to bed; ’tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn As much as we this night have overwatch’d. This palpable-gross play hath well beguiled The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed. A fortnight hold we this solemnity, In nightly revels and new jollity.
The iron clock of midnight has struck twelve: Lovers, go to bed; it’s almost fairy time. I fear we’ll sleep past the coming morning Just as much as we’ve stayed up tonight. This thick and heavy play has done well to trick The slow-moving night. Sweet friends, to bed. We’ll keep this celebration for two more weeks, With nightly revels and new joy.
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 tired farmer snores, Done with his work for the night. Now the burned-out torches glow, While the screech-owl, screaming loud, Reminds the poor soul lying in misery Of the death shroud. Now it’s the time of night When the graves are all open wide, And every one lets out its spirit, Gliding through the churchyard paths: And we fairies, who run By the power of Hecate’s team, Leave the sun behind, Following darkness like a dream, Now are playful: not a mouse Will disturb this sacred house: I’m sent with a broom in front, To sweep the dust from behind the door.
Through the house give gathering 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.
Light up the house, By the dead and sleepy fire: Every elf and fairy sprite Hop as lightly as birds from bushes; And after me, sing this song, And dance it lightly.
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, practice your song by memorizing it. Sing each word with a lovely, musical sound. Together, with magical charm, We’ll sing and bring good wishes to 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 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, 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 in safety rest. Trip away; make no stay; Meet me all by break of day.
Now, until the morning light, Let every fairy roam through this house. We’ll bless the best marriage bed, So that the children born there Will always have good luck. The three couples will stay Forever faithful and full of love. No flaws from nature’s hand Will trouble their children. No moles, hare lips, scars, Or unusual marks that people dislike at birth Will appear on their children. With this holy dew from the fields, Let every fairy go their way And bless each room in this palace with peace. The owner of this house Will always be safe and protected. Now hurry along; don’t delay, And meet me at dawn!
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 unearned 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 actors have upset you, Just think of it this way: it’ll fix everything— You were only dreaming while These strange scenes played out. This silly and harmless story Was nothing more than a dream. Kind folks, please don’t be upset: If you forgive us, we’ll make it right. As I’m honest Puck, If we’re lucky enough to avoid harsh criticism, We’ll fix things soon. If not, you can call me a liar! So, good night to everyone. If you clap and show we’re friends, I will make it all better.