A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM
QUINCE.
Is all our company here?
BOTTOM.
You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip.
QUIN.
Here is the scroll of every man’s name, which is thought fit, through all Athens, to play in our interlude before the Duke and the Duchess on his wedding-day at night.
BOT.
First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on; then read the names of the actors; and so grow to a point.
QUIN.
Marry, our play is, the most lamentable comedy, and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby.
BOT.
A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll. Masters, spread yourselves.
QUIN.
Answer as I call you. Nick Bottom, the weaver.
BOT.
Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed.
QUIN.
You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus.
BOT.
What is Pyramus? a lover or a tyrant?
QUIN.
A lover, that kills himself most gallant for love.
BOT.
That will ask some tears in the true performing of it; if I do it, let the audience look to their eyes; I will move storms, I will condole in some measure. To the rest: yet my chief humour is for a tyrant; I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split.
The raging rocks
And shivering shocks
Shall break the locks
Of prison-gates;
And Phibbus’ car
Shall shine from far,
And make and mar
The foolish Fates.
This was lofty! Now name the rest of the players. This is Ercles’ vein, a tyrant’s vein; a lover is more condoling.
QUIN.
Francis Flute, the bellows-mender.
FLU.
Here, Peter Quince.
QUIN.
Flute, you must take Thisby on you.
FLU.
What is Thisby?—a wandering knight?
QUIN.
It is the lady that Pyramus must love.
FLU.
Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming.
QUIN.
That’s all one: you shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will.
BOT.
And I may hide my face. Let me play Thisby, too; I’ll speak in a monstrous little voice: “Thisne, Thisne”; “Ah, Pyramus, my lover, dear! thy Thisby, dear, and lady dear!”
QUIN.
No, no; you must play Pyramus; and, Flute you Thisby.
BOT.
Well, proceed.
QUIN.
Robin Starveling, the tailor.
STAR.
Here, Peter Quince.
QUIN.
You, Pyramus’ father; myself, Thisby’s father; Snug, the joiner; you, the lion’s part; and, I hope, here is a play fitted.
SNUG.
Have you the lion’s part written? Pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of study.
QUIN.
You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring.
BOT.
Let me play the lion, too: I will roar, that I will do any man’s heart good to hear me; I will roar, that I will make the Duke say: “Let him roar again, let him roar again.”
QUIN.
And you should do it too terribly, you would fright the Duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek; and that were enough to hang us all.
ALL.
That would hang us, every mother’s son.
BOT.
I grant you, friends, if you should fright the ladies out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to hang us; but I will aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove; I will roar you an’ ’twere any nightingale.
QUIN.
You can play no part but Pyramus; for Pyramus is a sweet-faced man; a proper man, as one shall see in a summer’s day; a most lovely, gentleman-like man; therefore you must needs play Pyramus.
BOT.
Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I best to play it in?
QUIN.
Why, what you will.
BOT.
I will discharge it in either your straw colour beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French crown colour beard, your perfect yellow.
QUIN.
Some of your French crowns have no hair at all, and then you will play barefaced. But, masters, here are your parts; and I am to entreat you, request you, and desire you, to con them by to-morrow night; and meet me in the palace wood, a mile without the town, by moonlight; there we will rehearse, for if we meet in the city, we shall be dogged with company, and our devices known. In the meantime I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants. I pray you, fail me not.
BOT.
We will meet; and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously. Take pains; be perfect. Adieu.
QUIN.
At the duke’s oak we meet.
BOT.
Enough; hold or cut bow-strings.
Act I. Scene II.
BOT.
Are we all met?
QUIN.
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.
BOT.
Peter Quince——.
QUIN.
What sayest thou, Bully Bottom?
BOT.
There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisby that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself; which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that?
SNOUT.
By’r lakin, a parlous fear.
STAR.
I believe we must leave the killing out when all is done.
BOT.
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.
QUIN.
Well, we will have such a prologue; and it shall be written in eight and six.
BOT.
No, make it two more; let it be written in eight and eight.
SNOUT.
Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion?
STAR.
I fear it, I promise you.
BOT.
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’t.
SNOUT.
Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion.
BOT.
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.
QUIN.
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 Thisby meet by moonlight.
SNOUT.
Doth the moon shine that night we play our play?
BOT.
A calendar, a calendar! look in the almanac; find out moonshine, find out moonshine.
QUIN.
Yes, it doth shine that night.
BOT.
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.
QUIN.
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 Thisby, says the story, did talk through the chink of a wall.
SNOUT.
You can never bring in a wall. What say you, Bottom?
BOT.
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 Thisby whisper.
QUIN.
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 every one according to his cue.
(Enter Puck, behind.)
PUCK.
What hempen home-spuns 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.
QUIN.
Speak, Pyramus. Thisby, stand forth.
BOT.
Thisby, the flowers of odious savours sweet, ——.
QUIN.
Odours, odours.
BOT.
—— Odours savours sweet:
So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby, dear.
But hark, a voice! stay thou but here awhile,
And by and by I will to thee appear. (Exit).
PUCK.
A stranger Pyramus than e’er play’d here.
FLU.
Must I speak now?
QUIN.
Ay, marry, must you; for you must understand he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again.
FLU.
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.
QUIN.
“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 due is past; it is, “never tire.”
FLU.
O,—As true as truest horse, that would never tire.
(Re-enter Puck and Bottom, with an ass’s head.)
BOT.
If I were fair, Thisby, I were only thine.
QUIN.
O monstrous! O strange! we are haunted.
Pray, masters! fly, masters! Help!
Act III, Sc. I, lines 1–107.
THESEUS.
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.
PHIL.
Here, mighty Thesus.
THE.
Say, what abridgement have you for this evening?
What masque? what music? How shall we beguile
The lazy time, if not with some delight?
PHIL.
There is a brief how many sports are ripe:
Make choice of which your highness will see first.
THE.
(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 riot of the tipsy Bacchanals,
Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.
That is an old decide; and it was play’d
When I from Thebes came last a conqueror.
(Reads) 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.
(Reads) 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?
PHIL.
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 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.
THE.
What are they that do play it?
PHIL.
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.
THE.
And we will hear it.
PHIL.
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.
THE.
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.
HIP.
I love not to see wretchedness o’ercharged,
And duty in his service perishing.
THE.
Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing.
HIP.
He says they can do nothing in this kind.
THE.
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 in it 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 broken off,
Not paying me a welcome. Trust 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 Philostrate.)
PHIL.
So please, your Grace, the Prologue is address’d.
(Flourish of trumpets.)
(Enter Quince for the Prologue.)
PRO.
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.
THE.
This fellow doth not stand upon points.
LYS.
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.
HIP.
Indeed he hath played on his prologue like a child on a recorder; a sound, but not in government.
THE.
His speech was like a tangled chain; nothing impaired, but all disordered. Who is next?
(Enter Pyramus and Thisbe, Wall, Moonshine and Lion.)
PRO.
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 line 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 his 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.
(Exeunt Prologue, Pyramus, Thisbe, Lion and Moonshine.)
THE.
I wonder if the lion be to speak.
DEM.
No wonder, my lord: one lion may, when many asses do.
WALL.
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.
THE.
Would you desire lime and hair to speak better?
DEM.
It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord.
THE.
Pyramus draws near the wall; silence!
(Re-enter Pyramus).
PYR.
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!
(Wall holds up his fingers.)
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!
THE.
The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again.
PYR.
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.
(Re-enter Thisbe.)
THIS.
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.
PYR.
I see a voice: now will I to the chink,
To spy an’ I can hear my Thisby’s face.
Thisby!
THIS.
My love thou art, my love I think.
PYR.
Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover’s grave;
And, like Limander, am I trusty still.
THIS.
And I like Helen, till the Fates me kill.
PYR.
Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true.
THIS.
As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you.
PYR.
O, kiss me through the hole of this vile wall!
THIS.
I kiss the wall’s hole, not your lips at all.
PYR.
Wilt thou at Ninny’s tomb meet me straightway?
THIS.
’Tide life, ’tide death, I’d come without delay.
(Exeunt Pyramus and Thisbe.)
WALL.
Thus have I, wall, my part discharged so;
And, being done, this wall away doth go.
THE.
Now is the mural down between the two neighbours.
DEM.
No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear without warning.
HIP.
This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard.
THE.
The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them.
HIP.
It must be your imagination then, and not theirs.
THE.
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.
(Re-enter Lion and Moonshine.)
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.
THE.
A very gentle beast, and of good conscience.
DEM.
The very best at a beast, my lord, that e’er I saw.
LYS.
This lion is a very fox for his valour.
THE.
True; and a goose for his discretion.
DEM.
Not so, my lord; for his valour cannot carry his discretions; and the fox carries the goose.
THE.
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.
MOON.
This lanthorn doth the horned moon present;—
DEM.
He should have worn the horns on his head.
THE.
He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the circumference.
MOON.
This lanthorn doth the horned moon present;
Myself the man i’ the moon do seem to be.
THE.
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?
DEM.
He dares not come there for the candle; for, you see, it is already in snuff.
HIP.
I am aweary of this moon: would he would change!
THE.
It appears, by his small light of discretion, that he is on the wane; but yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time.
LYS.
Proceed, Moon.
MOON.
All that I have to say is to tell you that the lanthorn is the moon; I, the man i’ the moon; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog.
DEM.
Why, all these should be in the lantern; for all these are in the moon. But, silence! here comes Thisbe.
(Re-enter Thisbe.)
THIS.
This is old Ninny’s tomb. Where is my love?
LION.
(Roaring) Oh,——.
DEM.
Well roared, Lion.
THE.
Well run, Thisbe.
HIP.
Well shone, Moon. Truly the moon shines with a good grace.
(The Lion shakes Thisbe’s mantle, and exit.)
THE.
Well moused, Lion.
DEM.
And then came Pyramus.
LYS.
And so the Lion vanished.
(Re-enter Pyramus.)
PYR.
Sweet Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams;
I thank thee, Moon, for shining now so bright;
For, by thy gravious, golde, glittering gleams,
I trust to take of truest Thisby’s 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!
THE.
This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.
HIP.
Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.
PYR.
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. (Stabs himself.)
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. (Exit Moonshine.)
Now die, die, die, die, die. (Dies.)
DEM.
No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one.
LYS.
Less than an ace, man, for he is dead; he is nothing.
THE.
With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover, and prove an ass.
HIP.
How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover?
THE.
She will find him by starlight. Here she comes; and her passion ends the play.
(Re-enter Thisbe.)
HIP.
Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus. I hope she will be brief.
DEM.
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.
LYS.
She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes.
DEM.
And thus she means, videlicet:
THIS.
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: (Stabs herself.)
And, farewell, friends:
Thus Thisbe ends:
Adieu, adieu, adieu. (Dies.)
THE.
Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead.
DEM.
Ay, and Wall, too.
BOT.
(Starting up.) 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?
THE.
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.
Act V. Scene I. Line 32–line 369.
ACTORS.
Read the names of the actors, and so grow to a point.
I, 2, 9.
Call forth your actors by the scroll,
Masters spread yourselves.
I, 2, 16.
I’ll be an auditor;
An actor, too, perhaps. If I see cause.
III, 1, 82.
Most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath.
IV, 2, 43.
The actors are at hand, and by their show
You shall know all.
V, 1, 116.
AUDIENCE.
If I do let the audience look to their eyes.
V, 1, 145.
COMEDY.
Our play is the most lamentable comedy, and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisbe.
I, 11, 12.
There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisby that will never please.
III, 1, 9.
I do not doubt but to hear them say it is a sweet comedy.
IV, 2, 45.
CUE. PART.
And so every one according to his cue.
III, 1, 78.
You speak all your parts at once, cues and all.
III, 1, 102.
When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer.
IV, 1, 205.
“Deceiving me” is Thisby’s cue.
V, 1, 186.
ABRIDGEMENT.
Say, what abridgement have you for this evening?
What masques, what music? How shall we beguile
The lazy time if not with some delight.
V, 1, 35.
An “Abridgement” appears to be an entertainment consisting of a dramatic performance of short duration to while away the time. Another meaning was a compendium of a larger work with the details abridged. I cannot find any contemporary use of this term, as it is employed by Shakespeare.
AUDITOR.
I’ll be an auditor; an actor, too, perhaps.
III, 1, 81.
EIGHT AND SIX. PROLOGUE.
QUINCE.
We will have such a prologue; and it shall be written in eight and six.
III, 1, 25.
The ballads of the day were generally written in this metre, alternate verses of eight and six syllables. The sonnets of the time were composed in fourteen lines. All Shakespearean sonnets are written in this number. Quince may have had this reckoning in his mind when he recommended eight and six—fourteen. George Gascoigne, the Elizabethan poet, composed the verses for a masque in fourteen syllable metre. In the play as performed before the Duke, the prologue does not appear.
EPILOGUE.
Please you to see the epilogue or to hear a Bergomask dance between two of our company?
V, i, 360.
A Bergomask dance was performed after the manner of a dance by Bergamo peasants. Bergamo was formerly a town in Venetia; now it is in the province of Lombardy.
But come, your Bergomask; let your epilogue alone.
V, i, 369.
ERCLES VEIN. PART.
I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in.
I, 2, 31.
This is Ercles’ vein, a tyrant’s vein; a lover is more condoling.
I, 2, 42.
The “Ercles vein” referred to a style of acting widely prevalent in Shakespeare’s day. This method gained his unqualified disapproval, which he specially denounced in Hamlet’s advice to the players. Through his influence, this melodramatic bombastic ranting was finally driven from the stage, not, alas, without many pleadings for its retention amongst several playgoers. Robert Greene, the dramatist, in his Groatsworth of Wit, the same pamphlet in which he accuses Shakespeare of downright plagiarism, mentions an actor who observes how he heard “The Twelve Labours of Hercules thunder on the stage.” Henslowe, in his Diary, notes the name of a play on this subject, and others are also known. It gave an opportunity for a robust actor to carry an audience with him in his display of fiery outbursts of uncontrollable passion.
EXTEMPORE.
You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring.
I, 2, 70.
MASK.
FLUTE.
Nay, faith, let not me play a woman: I have a beard coming.
QUI.
That’s all one, you shall play it in a mask.
There is a tradition that masks were worn by ladies attending the theatres in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. This custom may have originated from the stage use of boys and men playing female parts, sometimes in masks. Very little is known of the history of wearing masks, both in public and private performances. The above quotation proves that it would not be at all incongruous for an actor to play his part in a mask.
MASQUE.
What masques, what dances shall we have?
V, 1, 32.
What masque? what music? How shall we beguile
The lazy time, if not with some delight.
V, 1, 40.
INTERLUDE.
Here is the scroll of every man’s name which is thought fit, through all Athens, to play in our interlude.
I, 2, 5.
APPAREL.
Get your apparel together, good strings to your beards, new ribbons to your pumps. In any case, let Thisby have clean linen.
IV, 2, 36.
Although scenic effects did not play a great part in Elizabethan performances, the actors spared no pains in appearing before the audience in most elaborate costumes. The court masques were most gorgeously costumed, and the expenses totalled thousands of pounds. It is on record that noblemen lent their rich doublets and hose to actors on special occasions, all characters, whether ancient or modern, appearing in the costume of the day. Henslowe’s Diary affords many glimpses of the dresses supplied to the actors. In fact, the rich apparel of the actors is one of the noteworthy features of an Elizabethan play, and can be attested by many contemporary witnesses. We see here the rude mechanicals aping their betters, and Bottom’s request that the performers shall appear in their best and do everything in their power to make a goodly show before the Duke.
PLAY.
Say what the play treats on.
I, 2, 9.
Mary! our play is The most lamentable comedy.
I, 2, 11.
I could play Ercles rarely.
I, 2, 31.
Let me not play a woman, I have a beard coming.
You shall play it in a mask.
I, 2, 51.
Let me play Thisby, too.
I, 2, 53.
You must play Pyramus: And Flute, you Thisby.
I, 2, 57.
Robin Starveling you must play Thisby’s mother.
I, 2, 62.
Here is a play fitted
I, 2, 67.
Let me play the lion, too. I will roar.
I, 2, 72.
You can play no part but Thisby.
I, 2, 87.
What beard where I best to play it in.
I, 2, 93.
And then you will play barefaced.
I, 2, 100.
I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants.
I, 2, 105.
Doth the moon shine that night we play our play.
III, 1, 53.
Leave a casement of the great chamber window where we play, open.
III, 1, 58.
What a play toward.
III, 1, 81.
To rehearse a play.
III, 11, 2.
I will sing it the latter end of the play.
IV, 1, 23.
If he come not then the play is marred.
IV, 2, 5.
Our play is preferred.
IV, 2, 39.
Let not him that plays the lion pare his nails.
IV, 2, 41.
Is there no play
To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?
V, i, 36.
A play there is, my lord, some ten words long,
Which is as brief as I have known a play.
V, 1, 61.
For in all the play
There is not one word apt, one player fitted.
V, i, 64.
What are they that do play it?
V, 1, 71.
And now have toiled their unbreathed memories
With this same play.
V, 1, 75.
I will hear that play.
V, 1, 81.
Here she comes, and her passion ends the play.
V, 1, 321.
No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no excuse.
V, 1, 362.
This palpable gross play hath well beguil’d
The heavy gait of night.
V, 1, 374.
PLAYED.
A stranger Pyramus than e’er played here.
II, 1, 91.
It was play’d
When I from Thebes came last a conqueror.
V, 1, 90.
He hath played on his prologue like a child on a recorder.
V, 1, 122.
If he that writ it had played Pyramus and hanged himself in Thisbe’s garter it would have been a fine tragedy.
V, 1, 365.
PLAYER.
Now name the rest of the players.
I, 2, 42.
For in all the play there is not one word apt, one player fitted.
V, 1, 65.
Never excuse, for when the players are all dead there need none to be blamed.
V, 1, 364.
PUPPET.
Fie: you counterfeit, you puppet you!
Puppet? why so?
III, 2, 288.
PROLOGUE.
Write me a prologue.
III, 1, 1a.
We will have such a prologue.
III, 1, 24.
Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion.
III, 1, 35.
So please, your grace, the prologue is addressed.
V, 1, 106.
He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt.
V, 1, 119.
Indeed he hath played on his prologue like a child on a recorder.
V, 1, 122.
PART.
Name what part I am for and proceed.
I, 2, 20.
I could play Ercles rarely or a part to tear a cat in.
I, 2, 31.
Snug, the joiner; you, the lion’s part.
I, 2, 66.
Have you the lion’s part written?
I, 2, 68.
You can play no part by Pyramus.
I, 2, 87.
Here are your parts; and I am to entreat you and desire you to con them by to-morrow night.
I, 2, 101.
Sit down, every mother’s son, and rehearse your parts.
III, 1, 102.
Every man look o’er his part.
IV, 2, 38.
Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged.
PLAYING.
O sweet Bully Bottom; Thus hath he lost sixpence a day during his life: he could not have scaped sixpence a day; or the duke had not given him sixpence a day for playing Pyramus, I’ll be hanged; he would have deserved it; sixpence a day in Pyramus or nothing.
IV, 2, 23.
There is probably an allusion here to some actor who had been pensioned by the Queen with this sum. The author of “Cambyses,” Thomas Preston, was pensioned, at the rate of twenty pounds a year, by the Queen for his rare ability in acting. The play in which Preston acted was John Ritwise’s “Dido,” played before Queen Elizabeth at Cambridge, 1564. Shakespeare likewise ridiculed the title page of “Cambyses” by alluding to the most lamentable comedy of Pyramus and Thisby.
After the lapse of so many years it is doubtful whether the audience fully appreciated or understood the allusion.
PROPERTIES.
In the meantime I will draw a bill of properties.
I, 2, 108.
REHEARSAL.
A marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal.
III, 1, 3.
REHEARSE.
A mile without the town, by moonlight: there will we rehearse.
I, 2, 105.
There may we rehearse most obscenely and courageously.
I, 2, 110.
Sit down every mother’s son, and rehearse your parts.
III, 1, 75.
Were met together to rehearse a play.
III, 2, 11.
Which, when I saw rehearsed, I must confess made more eyes water.
V, i, 68.
The first authentic use of this word, in its technical theatrical sense, is made by Shakespeare in this passage: “A marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal.” Cunningham, in his Revels Accounts, quotes the use of the word in 1580: “Rehersinge of divers plaies and their sundry Rehersells.” There is a grave suspicion of forgery overhanging Cunningham’s transcripts of the Revels Account. Most critics would condemn them as modern forgeries, while others uphold their genuineness.
REVELS.
The King doth keep his Revels here to-night.
II, 1, 18.
THESEUS.
Where is our usual manager of mirth?
What revels are in hand?
V, 1, 36.
A fortnight hold we this solemnly
In nightly revels and new jolity.
V, 1, 377.
Where is our usual manager of mirth?
What Revels are in hand? Is there no play
To ease the anguish of a torturing house?
Call Egeus (Philostrate Master of the Revels).
There is a curious error in the above passage, which is copied from the First Folio. Egeus is simply an Athenian Lord, and is in no way connected with the household of Theseus. Philostrate, who is really Master of the Revels to the Duke, is correctly named in this extract in Fisher’s quarto edition of the play, issued in Shakespeare’s life-time. The error probably arose through the same actor’s doubling the characters of both Egeus and Philostrate, and must be attributed to the prompter, who adapted for the stage the quarto edition, dated 1600. This was, in fact, the original quarto, and fraudulently re-issued in 1619. It was called the Robert’s quarto, from the name of the printer, and this quarto was used by the editors of the First Folio in reprinting the play. Although the date of 1600, the same as that of Fisher’s quarto, is stamped on the title page, it has been conclusively proved by Mr. Pollard, of the British Museum, that this edition was really issued in 1619, together with other quartos, some of which bear false dates, and the nine false quartos were bound in one volume in the year 1619.
The Master of the Revels was an important official at the Court. All plays that were publicly acted were obliged beforehand to obtain the sanction of the Master of the Revels, much in the same way as the approval of the Lord Chamberlain must be obtained in our own times. During Elizabeth’s reign, Edward Tilney held this post in the Royal Household; his official residence was at St. John’s Gate, Clerkenwell, and here were stored the properties and costumes that were used in the masques and entertainments, which were presented at the palaces of Whitehall, Greenwich, Hampton Court, and other royal residences. During the last years of the Queen’s reign, Henry Carey, first Baron Hunsdon, was Lord Chamberlain; after his death, William Brooke, Lord Cobham, succeeded to the office, to be followed by George Carey, second Lord Hunsdon, the son of the earlier Lord Chamberlain.
SCENE.
Forsook his scene and entered in a brake.
III, 2, 15.
A tedious, brief scene of young Pyramus and his love, Thisbe.
V, 1, 56.
SHOW.
Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show:
But wonder on, till truth make all things plain.
V, 1, 128.
STAGE.
This green plot shall be our stage.
III, 1, 4.
STUDY.
Have you the lion’s part written? Pray, if it be, give it me; I am slow of study.
I, 2, 69.
I am told that to study a part belongs to the theatrical vocabulary of to-day. Another proof of the conservatism of the English stage.
TIRING HOUSE.
This green plot shall be our stage, this hawthorn brake our tiring house.
III, 1, 4.
Every Elizabethan theatre possessed a tiring house or a tiring room, as it is generally named. The word is an abbreviation of attiring house: the place where the actors dressed or attired themselves. From the very earliest times the tiring room was a part of theatrical equipment. In the early days of the Greek drama, the Coryphæus mounted on a table, surrounded by choristers, who danced and chanted the dithyrambs in the orchestra. This was the name given to the flat service enclosed between the stage buildings and the inside boundary of the auditorium. It was called the orchestra, or dancing place, because in Greek theatres it was reserved for the performance of the chorus.
Thespis, who first introduced an actor on the scene, in the latter part of the sixth century B.C., erected a booth at the back of the orchestra in order to facilitate the changing of his costume. As this one actor impersonated all the characters in the play, it can easily be imagined how necessary the tiring room became. In later years, when the dramas of Æschylus, Sophocles and Euripides were produced, regular stage buildings, with ample accommodation for the actors, were then in vogue. The tiring house of the Globe Theatre was in all probability constructed at the back or on the side of the lower stage. Some critics would also allot a space on the first floor for a second tiring room, adjoining the music room, which was known to be situated in that part of the building. There can be no doubt that in the engraving of the so-called “Inside of the Red Bull Theatre,” spectators are watching the play from these rooms, but it is not safe to deduce any dogmatic conclusions from this drawing: one critic would place the tiring room behind the proscenium doors on the ground floor, and the second room behind the balcony windows on the first floor. It would also seem, by a quotation from Melton’s Astrologaster, 1620, that the tiring room was used for preparing scenic illusion. “While Drummer’s made thunder in the Tyring-house.” The whole subject of the exact situation and the uses of this room is beset with difficulties, and no one so far has grappled with them successfully. That an actors’ dressing room did exist is a positive certainty. The most convenient place would be at the back of the lower stage, and, until further proof is forthcoming, there it must be located. This is the only instance in which Shakespeare uses the word.
TRAGEDY.
Mary, if he that writ it had play’d Pyramus and hanged himself in Thisbe’s garter, it would have been a fine tragedy; and so it is, truly and very notably discharged.
V, 1, 367.
By the above quotation, the word discharge bore some theatrical meaning, but I have failed to trace the use of the word as connected specially with the stage.
TRAGICAL.
Very tragical mirth. Merry and tragical.
V, 1, 57.
And tragical, my noble lord, it is
For Pyramus therein doth kill himself.
V, 1, 66.
THESEUS.
Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth,
Joy, gentle friends; joy and fresh days of love
Accompany your hearts.
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.
V, 1, 37.
When a marriage was celebrated in a nobleman’s family it was customary for a play, interlude or some kind of dramatic entertainment to be represented, in presence of the invited guests. This play of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” may have been written and acted to solemnize the marriage of the Earl of Southampton to Elizabeth Vernon, or that of Edward Russell to Lucy Harrington. Noblemen, who were nominally the patrons of the different actors’ companies, often requisitioned their services at their private houses or summoned them to their country houses, to play before them on some festive occasion. The assumption that this play was acted in honour of Southampton’s marriage is the merest guess, no atom of proof being available that such was the case. Perhaps a version of the play was acted before the Court, but even this statement is pure surmise.
Flourish of Trumpets.
V, 1, 107.
The above stage direction appears only in the First Folio; it is omitted in the quartos, but retained in all modern editions. These musical honours announced the commencement of the play. In the sketch of the Swan Theatre, the trumpet is being sounded, although the action of the drama is in progress. To account for this anomaly, we must infer that the artist drew his sketch from memory, and inadvertently overlooked this slight discrepancy. Dekker, in his Gulls Hornbook, first printed in 1609, addresses the Gallant, who is about to visit the theatre, not to present himself until the quaking prologue hath, by rubbing himself, got colour in his cheeks, and is ready to give the trumpets their cue that he’s about to enter. On the modern English stage a bell is rung to indicate the rise of the curtain. In France, three knocks on the stage announce the appearance of the actors.
TAWYERS WITH A TRUMPET BEFORE THEM.
Enter Pyramus and Thisbe, Wall, Moonshine and Lion.
V, 1, 127.
This is a stage direction peculiar only to the First Folio; it is not included in modern editions. The correct direction should be: Enter Pyramus and Thisbe, Moonshine and Lion, Tawyers before them with a trumpet. Tawyer was an actor who played subordinate parts; at one time he was in the employment of Heminge, one of the chief actors of the Lord Chamberlain’s servants, and more important still, one of the editors of the famous and the most precious books in all literature, the First Folio of Shakespeare’s Works, 1623. There is a monument erected in his honour and that of his fellow editor, Henry Condell, in the churchyard of St. Mary’s, Aldermanbury, in the City of London. No true Shakesperean should omit paying a visit to this shrine. The real names of the actors occur several times in the Folio edition. In “Much Ado About Nothing” a certain Jacke Wilson is mentioned in the stage directions: “Enter Prince Leonato, Claudio and Jacke Wilson.” This Jacke Wilson impersonated the character of Balthazar, a servant of Don Pedro, who sings the well-known song in the second act, entitled, “Sigh no more, Ladies.”
There has been some controversy respecting the identity of this actor. He has been confounded with Dr. John Wilson, who composed the music to “Sigh no more, Ladies.” Jack Wilson, the actor and singer, belonged to St. Giles’s, Cripplegate, where he was baptized in 1585, whereas John Wilson, the Doctor of Music, was born at Faversham, Kent, in 1594. Dr. Wilson set to music many of Shakespeare’s lyrics, and is the author of a rare book, entitled Cheerful Ayres and Ballads, 1660. This book is also noted as being the first essay of printing music at Oxford. Although the editors strongly assert that the plays are printed from the author’s manuscripts, a slight acquaintance with the original edition will prove that this statement is not accurate. In fact, I doubt that any single play in the entire collection was copied from a Shakespeare holograph. The many stage directions alone indicate that transcript copies, expressly written out for the prompter, formed the basis of the text as it has come down to us. In some instances it can be proved that the latest printed quarto before 1623 served the compositors for setting up the type. The question is of great interest, and deserves a thoroughly exhaustive examination.
Enter Quince for the Prologue.
V, 1, 108.
In a prologue prefixed to Beaumont and Fletcher’s “Woman Hater,” 1607, the authors affirm that the person who delivered the prologue wore a garland of bay leaves, and was dressed in a black velvet coat. The bay was the sign of authorship, and the person who delivered the prologue was generally the author or his representative. In this instance, we are to accept Quince as the author of the interlude.
PYRAMUS AND THISBE.
The interlude of Pyramus and Thisbe, acted by the rude mechanicals, is a burlesque of a famous legend, related originally by Ovid, in the fourth book of the Metamorphoses. This poem, which consists of fifteen books, was composed shortly after the first years of the Christian era. The first printed edition, which was in Latin, was issued at Bologna, 1471. Dr. Rouse, in his beautiful edition of Golding’s translation (which, by the way, cost me more than the second complete edition of 1575) relates, in his interesting introduction, the following important information. In the Bodleian Library is a copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, printed by Aldus in 1502, which bears on the title page the signature “Wm. Shr,” and opposite is written, in what appears to be a seventeenth century hand: “This little book of Ovid was given to me by W. Hall, who sayd it was once Will Shakespere’s T. N., 1682.” John Hall, it will be remembered, married Shakespeare’s daughter, Susanna. The genuineness of the inscription has, of course, been questioned, and, no doubt, it is a clever forgery. The book has been used by more than one person for study. One has written in a fine minute hand meanings and paraphrases in Latin above the text throughout the earlier part of the volume. Many verses have been underlined, especially in the earlier books, and but very few pages show no marks of use. There are also marginal scribblings and caricatures, which are carelessly done, and do not appear to be so old as the rest. The first English translation of the Metamorphoses was made by Arthur Golding, which consisted of the first four books, and consequently included the story of Pyramus and Thisbe. This edition was printed and perhaps published, although the latter fact is not stated, by William Seres. The title page is as follows: “Imprynted at London by William Seres, anno 1565.” Two years later the entire fifteen books were published, and other editions followed in 1575, 1587, 1603, 1612. The Pyramus and Thisbe legend is found in most European literature. I possess an edition of Montemayer’s Diana, in Spanish, dated 1585, a pastoral romance well known to Shakespeare. At the end of this romance is related in verse the history of Pyramus and Thisbe. In French the same story is dramatised by Theophile de Vian, published in 1627. Other versions are known in Greek, Italian, German, Dutch and Roumanian.
Shakespeare has treated the story very unkindly, burlesqueing it in a most merciless fashion; even the rustic amateurs have not been spared being ridiculed in no less degree. Although exaggerated beyond recognition, the burlesque is most amusing, and must have caused endless delight and roaring laughter from the groundlings for whom it would appear it was principally intended.