THESEUS.
Well run, Thisbe.
HIPPOLYTA.
Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines with a good grace.
[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.