Quince. A plain man, say you. Forsooth, yours is a very fearful manner of plainness, Francis Flute. But look at me, masters all, and you would gaze upon a plain man.
Starveling. Nay, look on me, in his stead.
Snout. Not so, but on me.
Snug. These be liars, every mother’s son. Look upon me, I say, Francis Flute.
Flute. Masters, hear but the simple truth. You are all of you deceived and have suffered most horrible enchantment, every mother’s son of you but me. Heaven help you, neighbours, and undo the spell that each and every one may become as I am.
[Gnashes his jaws fearfully.
All. That were most dire affliction of any that be in the varsal world, Francis Flute.
Flute. And you were not something other than simple mankind I could try conclusions with you that speak thus enviously. Indeed, I am something that way toward, but now.
[Exeunt Omnes, fighting.
Enter Puck.