[310] Dem. A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, [311] which Thisbe, is the better; he for a man, God warrant us; she for a woman, God bless us.
Lys. She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes.
[314] Dem. And thus she means, videlicet:—
This.
315 Asleep, my love?
What, dead, my dove?
O Pyramus, arise!
Speak, speak. Quite dumb?
Dead, dead? A tomb
[320] Must cover thy sweet eyes.