A Midsummer Night's Dream Act 3 Scene 1

Are we all here?

Right on time. And here's a marvellously convenient

spot for our rehearsal. This patch of grass will

be our stage, this hawthorn thicket our dressing

room. And we'll act it out exactly as we'll

perform it for the Duke.

Peter Quince—

What is it, good old Bottom?

There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and

Thisbe that will never go down well. First, Pyramus has to

draw a sword and kill himself — which the ladies

won't be able to bear. What's your answer to that?

By Our Lady, that's a serious worry.

I think we'll have to leave the killing out, when all's

said and done.

Not at all — I have a trick that will sort it out.

Write a prologue for me, and have the prologue

explain that we'll do no harm with our swords and that

Pyramus isn't really killed. And for extra

reassurance, tell them that I, Pyramus, am not

Pyramus at all, but Bottom the weaver. That'll put them

at ease. (They are terrified of being too convincing. Nothing about their play is remotely convincing.)

All right, we'll have a prologue like that, and it'll be

written in alternating eight- and six-syllable lines.

No — add two more. Make it eight and

eight.

Won't the ladies be frightened of the lion?

I'm afraid so, I promise you.

Gentlemen, you ought to think about this. To

bring in — God protect us — a lion among ladies is a

most dreadful thing. There's no more terrifying

wildfowl alive than your lion, and we ought to

see to it. ('Wildfowl' means birds. He has classified a lion as a bird.)

So another prologue will have to explain that he isn't a

lion.

No — you must give his actual name, and half his face

must show through the lion's neck. And he

himself must speak through it, saying this, or to the

same defect: 'Ladies' — or 'Fair ladies, I would

wish you' — or 'I would request you' — or 'I

would beg you — not to be afraid, not to tremble. I'd stake

my life for yours. If you think I've come here as a lion,

it would go badly for me. No, I'm nothing of the sort;

I'm a man like other men.' And then let him

give his name, and tell them plainly that he's Snug the

joiner. ('Defect' should be 'effect.' He does it again.)

Fine, we'll do that. But there are two difficult things:

bringing moonlight into a room —

because, you know, Pyramus and Thisbe meet by

moonlight.

Does the moon shine on the night we perform our

play?

A calendar, a calendar! Look in the almanac. Find

the moonshine, find the moonshine.

Yes, it does shine that night.

Then you can leave one of the windows of the great

hall where we're performing open, and the moon

can shine in through it. (The one genuinely practical idea anyone has, and they immediately drop it.)

Yes — or else someone must come on with a bundle of thorns

and a lantern, and say he's come to disfigure — or to

represent — the character of Moonshine. Then there's

another thing: we need a wall in the great

hall, because Pyramus and Thisbe, so the story goes,

talked through a crack in a wall.

You can't possibly bring in a wall. What do you say,

Bottom?

One of us will have to play Wall. Let him

have some plaster or clay or pebbledash

stuck on him to signify wall. And let him hold his

fingers like this, and Pyramus and Thisbe can whisper

through the gap.

If that can be done, then all's well. Come on, sit down,

every one of you, and rehearse your parts.

Pyramus, you start. When you've said your

speech, go into that thicket — and everyone else

follow your cues.

What rough-clothed country bumpkins are swaggering about here,

so close to the fairy queen's bed?

What — a play in the making! I'll be in the audience,

and an actor too, perhaps, if I see a reason.

Speak, Pyramus. Thisbe, step forward.

'Thisbe, the flowers of odious scents so sweet—' (He means 'odorous.' He has just called the flowers disgusting.)

Odorous, odorous.

'—odorous scents so sweet,

and so is your breath, my dearest Thisbe dear.

But listen — a voice! Wait here a moment

and I'll be back with you shortly.'

A stranger Pyramus than has ever been played here.

Do I speak now?

Yes, you must. You have to understand

that he's only gone to check a noise he heard, and he'll

be back.

'Most radiant Pyramus, white as a lily,

coloured like the red rose on the proud briar,

most sprightly youth, and also loveliest Jew,

as true as the truest horse that never tired,

I'll meet you, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomb.' (It should be Ninus's tomb. 'Ninny' means idiot. He reads the whole part in one go, stage directions and all.)

'Ninus' tomb,' man! And you mustn't say that

yet — that's your reply to Pyramus. You're saying your whole

part at once, cues and everything. — Pyramus, enter! Your cue

has gone. It's 'never tire.'

Oh — 'As true as the truest horse, that never tired.'

'If I were handsome, Thisbe, I'd be yours alone.'

A monster! How strange! We're haunted! Pray,

gentlemen! Run, gentlemen! Help!

I'll follow you — I'll lead you round in circles

through bog, through bush, through thicket, through briar.

Sometimes I'll be a horse, sometimes a hound,

a pig, a headless bear, sometimes a flame —

and neigh and bark and grunt and roar and burn,

like horse, hound, hog, bear and fire, at every turn.

Why are they running away? This is a trick of theirs

to frighten me.

Bottom — you've changed! What am I seeing on

you?

What do you see? You're seeing a donkey's head of your

own, are you? (Meaning: the stupidity is yours. It is not.)

Bless you, Bottom, bless you! You've been

transformed.

I see their game. This is to make an ass of me,

to frighten me, if they could. But I won't move

from this spot whatever they do. I'll walk up

and down here and sing, so they'll hear

that I'm not afraid. (He has a donkey's head, and his conclusion is that his friends are bullying him.)

The blackbird, so black in colour,

with his orange-brown bill,

the song thrush with his note so true,

the wren with his little piping voice—

(waking) What angel is waking me from my flowery bed?

The finch, the sparrow and the lark,

the plain-singing grey cuckoo,

whose call many a man notices

and doesn't dare contradict —

because, really, who would argue with such a foolish

bird? Who would call a bird a liar, however often it cried

'cuckoo'? (The joke is that 'cuckoo' sounds like 'cuckold' — a man whose wife is unfaithful. He is singing it to a woman who is about to fall in love with him while married to someone else.)

Please, gentle mortal, sing again.

My ear is quite in love with your singing,

and my eye is captivated by your shape.

And the sheer power of your beauty compels me

at first sight to say — to swear — that I love you.

I'd have thought, madam, you had very little reason

for that. And yet, to be honest, reason

and love keep very little company these days —

more's the pity that some decent neighbours won't

get them back on speaking terms. I can make a joke

when the occasion calls for it. (The man with the donkey's head has just said the truest thing in the play.)

You're as wise as you are beautiful.

Not really, either. But if I had the wit to get

out of this wood, I'd have enough for my

own purposes.

Don't wish to leave this wood.

You'll stay here whether you want to or not.

I'm a spirit of no ordinary rank.

Summer itself waits on me as my servant.

And I love you — so come with me.

I'll give you fairies to wait on you,

and they'll fetch you jewels from the deep sea

and sing while you sleep on crushed flowers.

And I'll purge away your mortal coarseness

so that you can move like an airy spirit.

Peaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! Mustardseed!

Ready.

And me.

And me.

And me.

Where shall we go?

Be kind and courteous to this gentleman.

Hop along beside him and caper before his eyes.

Feed him apricots and blackberries,

purple grapes, green figs and mulberries.

Steal the honey-bags from the bumblebees,

and for night-candles cut off their waxy thighs

and light them at the glow-worm's fiery eyes

to see my love to bed and up again.

And pull the wings off painted butterflies

to fan the moonlight off his sleeping eyes.

Bow to him, elves, and pay him your respects. (Her tenderness involves dismembering bees and butterflies. The fairies are not gentle creatures.)

Greetings, mortal!

Greetings!

Greetings!

Greetings!

I beg your worship's pardon, sincerely. May I ask your

worship's name?

Cobweb.

I'd like to know you better, good Master

Cobweb. If I cut my finger, I'll take the liberty of using

you. (Cobwebs were used to stop bleeding.) — Your name, honest gentleman?

Peaseblossom.

Please give my regards to Mistress Pea-pod, your

mother, and Master Peapod, your father. Good

Master Peaseblossom, I'd like to know you better

as well. And your name, sir, if you please?

Mustardseed.

Good Master Mustardseed, I know your endurance

well. That cowardly, giant-sized roast beef has

devoured many a gentleman of your family. I promise

you, your relatives have made my eyes water before now. (He is condoling with mustard about being eaten with beef. He is entirely serious.)

I'd like to know you better, good Master

Mustardseed.

Come, attend him. Take him to my bower.

The moon seems to be looking with a watery eye,

and when she weeps, every little flower weeps too,

mourning some chastity forced on someone against their will.

Silence my love's tongue. Bring him quietly.