Is all our company here?
Bot. You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to
the scrip.
Quin. Here is the scrowl of every man's name, which is thought
fit through all Athens to play in our interlude before the Duke and
Dutchess, on his wedding day at night.
Bot. First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on; then
read the names of the actors; and so grow on to a point.
Quin. Marry, our play is the most lamentable comedy, and most cruel
death of Pyramus and Thisby.
Bot. A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good
Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scrowl. Masters, spread
yourselves.
Quin. Answer as I call you. Nick Bottom the weaver!
Bot. Ready: Name what part I am for, and proceed.
Quin. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus.
Bot. What is Pyramus, a lover, or a tyrant?
Quin. A lover that kills himself most gallantly for love.
Bot. 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 carr 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.
Quin. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender.
Flu. Here, Peter Quince.
Quin. Flute, you must take Thisby on you.
Flu. What is Thisby, a wand'ring knight?
Quin. It is the Lady that Pyramus must love.
Flu. Nay, faith, let not me play a woman, I have a beard coming.
Quin. That's all one, you shall play it in a mask, and you may speak
small as you will.
Bot. An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby too; I'll speak in a
monstrous little voice; Thisne, Thisne, ah Pyramus my lover dear, thy
Thisby dear, and lady dear.
Quin. No, no, you must play Pyramus; and Flute, you Thisby.
Bot. Well, proceed.
Quin. Robin Starveling, the Taylor.
Star. Here, Peter Quince.
Quin. Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby's mother:
Tom Snowt, the tinker.
Snowt. Here, Peter Quince.
Quin. You, Pyramus's father; myself, Thisby's father; Snug the
joiner, you the Lion's part; I hope there is a play fitted.
Snug. Have you the Lion's part written? Pray you, if it be, give it
me, for I am slow of study.
Quin. You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring.
Bot. Let me play the Lion too, I will roar, that I will do any man's
heart good to hear me. I will roar, that I will make the Duke say, let
him roar again, let him roar again!
Quin. If you should do it too terribly, you would fright the
Dutchess and the Ladies, that they would shriek, and that were enough
to hang us all.
All. That would hang us every mother's son.
Bot. I grant you, friends, if you should fright the Ladies out of
their wits, they would have no more discretion but to hang us; but
I will aggravate my voice so, that I will roar you as gently as any
sucking dove; I will roar you an 'twere any nightingale.
Quin. You can play no part but Pyramus, for Pyramus is a sweet fac'd
man, a proper man as one shall see in a summer's day; a most lovely
gentleman-like man: therefore you must needs play Pyramus.
Bot. Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I best to play it
in?
Quin. Why what you will.
Bot. I will discharge it in either your straw-colour'd beard,
your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your
French-crown-colour'd beard, your perfect yellow.
Quin. Some of your French-crowns have no hair at all, and then you
will play bare-fac'd. But, masters here are your parts, and I am to
intreat you, request you, and desire you to con them by to-morrow
night; and meet me in the palace-wood, a mile without the town, by
moonlight, there we will rehearse; for if we meet in the city, we
shall be dog'd with company, and our devices known. In the mean time
I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants. I pray you
fail me not.
Bot. We will meet, and there we may rehearse more obscenely and
courageously. Take pains, be perfect, adieu.
Quin. At the Duke's oak we meet.
Bot. But hold ye, hold ye, neighbours; are your voices in order, and
your tunes ready? For if we miss our musical pitch, we shall be all
'sham'd and abandon'd.
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?