Quin. Ay, ay! Nothing goes down so well as a little of your sol, fa, and long quaver; therefore let us be in our airs—and for better assurance I have got the pitch pipe.
Bot. Stand round, stand round! We'll rehearse our eplog—Clear up your pipes, and every man in his turn take up his stanza-verse—Are you all ready?
All. Ay, ay!—Sound the pitch-pipe, Peter Quince.
[Quince blows.
Bot. Now make your reverency and begin.
SONG—for Epilogue;
By Quince, Bottom, Snug, Flute, Starveling, Snout.
Quin. Most noble Duke, to us be kind;
Be you and all your courtiers blind,
That you may not our errors find,
But smile upon our sport.
For we are simple actors all,
Some fat, some lean, some short, some tall;
Our pride is great, our merit small;
Will that, pray, do at court?
II.
Starv. O would the Duke and Dutchess smile,
The court would do the same awhile,
But call us after, low and vile,
And that way make their sport:
Nay, would you still more pastime make,
And at poor we your purses shake,
Whate'er you give, we'll gladly take,
For that will do at court.