[The Lion tears Thisbe’s mantle, and exit.]
THESEUS.
Well moused, Lion.
DEMETRIUS.
And then came Pyramus.
LYSANDER.
And so the lion vanished.
Enter Pyramus.
PYRAMUS.
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 Thisbe 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, stained with blood?
Approach, ye Furies fell!
O Fates, come, come;
Cut thread and thrum;
Quail, rush, conclude, and quell!
THESEUS.
This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.
HIPPOLYTA.
Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.
PYRAMUS.
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 liv’d, that lov’d, that lik’d, that look’d with cheer.
Come, tears, confound!
Out, sword, and wound
The pap of Pyramus;
Ay, that left pap,
Where heart doth hop:
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!
Now die, die, die, die, die.
[Dies. Exit Moonshine.]