BOTTOM.
What is Pyramus—a lover, or a tyrant?
QUINCE.
A lover, that kills himself most gallantly for love.
BOTTOM.
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.
QUINCE.
Francis Flute, the bellows-mender.
FLUTE.
Here, Peter Quince.
QUINCE.
Flute, you must take Thisbe on you.
FLUTE.
What is Thisbe? A wandering knight?
QUINCE.
It is the lady that Pyramus must love.
FLUTE.
Nay, faith, let not me play a woman. I have a beard coming.
QUINCE.
That’s all one. You shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will.