A Midsummer Night's Dream Act 5 Scene 1

It's strange, Theseus, what these lovers are describing.

More strange than true. I'll never believe

these old fables or these fairy trifles.

Lovers and madmen have such boiling brains,

such inventive imaginations, that they grasp

more than cool reason ever understands.

The lunatic, the lover and the poet

are all made entirely of imagination.

One sees more devils than all of hell could hold —

that's the madman. The lover, just as frenzied,

sees Helen of Troy's beauty in a gypsy's face.

The poet's eye, rolling in a fine frenzy,

glances from heaven to earth and earth to heaven;

and as imagination gives body

to the shapes of unknown things, the poet's pen

turns them into forms, and gives to airy nothing

a definite place to live and a name. (The best description of writing anyone has produced, delivered by a man explaining that imagination is worthless.)

Strong imagination plays such tricks

that if it so much as senses some happiness

it invents someone who brought it;

or at night, imagining some fear,

how easily a bush is taken for a bear!

But the whole story of the night, told through,

with all their minds transformed together in the same way,

testifies to more than mere imaginings

and adds up to something solid and consistent —

strange and remarkable, whatever it is. (She is right and he is wrong, and the play never says so out loud.)

Here come the lovers, full of joy and high spirits.

Joy to you, friends! Joy and fresh days of love

go with your hearts!

And may more of it

attend your walks, your table and your bed.

Now then — what entertainments and dances shall we have

to wear away this endless three hours

between supper and bedtime?

Where's our usual master of revels?

What entertainments are ready? Is there no play

to ease the agony of a tortuous hour?

Call Philostrate.

Here, mighty Theseus.

Tell me — what time-shortener have you got for this evening?

What show? What music? How shall we cheat

the slow hours, if not with some entertainment?

Here's a list of the entertainments ready to go.

Choose which one Your Highness would like first.

'The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung

by an Athenian eunuch to the harp.'

None of that. I've already told my love about it,

in praise of my kinsman Hercules.

'The riot of the drunken Bacchantes,

tearing the Thracian singer apart in their fury.'

That's an old piece — it was performed

when I last came back from Thebes a conqueror.

'The nine Muses mourning the death

of Learning, lately dead in poverty.'

That's a satire, sharp and critical —

not suitable for a wedding.

'A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus

and his love Thisbe: very tragical mirth.'

Merry and tragical? Tedious and brief?

That's hot ice and remarkably strange snow.

How do we reconcile that contradiction?

There's a play, my lord, about ten words long —

the briefest play I've ever known.

But it's ten words too long, my lord,

which makes it tedious. In the entire play

there isn't one suitable word or one well-cast actor.

And it is tragic, my lord,

because Pyramus kills himself in it.

Which, when I watched it rehearsed, I must admit,

made my eyes water — but the loud laughter

has never produced more cheerful tears.

Who are the people performing it?

Rough-handed working men here in Athens,

who've never done mental work before,

and have now strained their unexercised memories

with this play, for your wedding.

And we'll watch it.

No, my lord,

it isn't for you. I've heard it through,

and it's nothing — nothing at all —

unless you can find amusement in their intentions,

stretched to the limit and learned with painful effort

to serve you.

I'll watch that play.

Nothing can ever be wrong

when simplicity and duty are offering it.

Go and bring them in. — Take your seats, ladies.

I don't enjoy watching poor people overreach

and see duty collapse under its own effort.

My sweet, you'll see nothing of the kind.

He says they can't do this sort of thing at all.

Then we're the kinder for thanking them for nothing.

Our entertainment will be to accept their mistakes.

And where poor effort falls short, generous respect

measures it by the attempt, not the achievement.

Where I've visited, learned scholars have planned

to greet me with rehearsed speeches,

and I've seen them shake and go pale,

stop dead in the middle of sentences,

choke on their practised delivery out of fear,

and finally break off in silence

without ever managing the welcome. Believe me, sweet,

I picked a welcome out of that silence.

And in the modesty of nervous duty

I read as much as I do from the rattling tongue

of confident, showy eloquence.

Affection, then, and tongue-tied simplicity

say most by saying least, as far as I'm concerned. (He is about to spend the whole performance heckling them.)

If it please Your Grace, the Prologue is ready.

Let him come forward.

If we offend, it is with our good will.

That you should think we come not to offend,

but with good will. To show our simple skill,

that is the true beginning of our end.

Consider then we come but in spite.

We do not come as meaning to content you,

our true intent is. All for your delight

we are not here. That you should here repent you,

the actors are at hand, and by their show

you shall know all that you are like to know. (Every full stop is in the wrong place, so he says the exact opposite of what he means, throughout.)

This fellow doesn't bother with punctuation.

He's ridden his prologue like an unbroken colt — he doesn't know

how to stop. A good lesson, my lord: it isn't enough

to speak, you must speak accurately.

He's played his prologue like a child with

a recorder — a noise, but not under control.

His speech was like a tangled chain: nothing broken,

just all out of order. Who's next?

Ladies and gentlemen, perhaps this display puzzles you.

Keep wondering, until the truth makes it all clear.

This man is Pyramus, in case you're wondering.

This beautiful lady is certainly Thisbe.

This man, with plaster and pebbledash, represents

Wall — that vile wall which kept these lovers apart.

And through Wall's crack, poor things, they're happy

to whisper. Let nobody be surprised at that.

This man, with a lantern, a dog and a thorn bush,

represents Moonshine — because, you should know,

it was by moonlight that these lovers didn't mind

meeting at Ninus's tomb, to do their courting.

This grisly beast, which goes by the name of Lion,

frightened away — or rather terrified —

faithful Thisbe when she arrived first that night.

And as she fled she dropped her cloak,

which vile Lion stained with his bloody mouth.

Soon comes Pyramus, a sweet, tall young man,

and finds his faithful Thisbe's cloak murdered.

At which, with a blade — a bloody, blameworthy blade —

he bravely broached his boiling bloody breast. (Eight words starting with B. He is very proud of this.)

And Thisbe, waiting in the mulberry shade,

drew his dagger and died. For everything else,

let Lion, Moonshine, Wall and the two lovers

explain at length, while they're still here. (He has just told the audience the entire plot, including both deaths, before the play begins.)

I wonder whether the lion is going to speak.

No surprise if he does, my lord. One lion may speak when so many asses do.

In this same play it so happens

that I, one Snout by name, represent a wall —

and such a wall as I'd like you to imagine

had a cracked hole or gap in it,

through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisbe,

often whispered very secretly.

This clay, this pebbledash and this stone show

that I am that same wall. That's the truth of it.

And this is the crack, right side and left,

through which the frightened lovers are to whisper.

Could you ask plaster and horsehair to speak better than that?

That's the wittiest partition I've ever heard hold forth,

my lord.

Pyramus is approaching the wall. Quiet!

O grim-faced night! O night with colouring so black!

O night, which always is when day is not!

O night, O night! Alas, alas, alas,

I fear my Thisbe's promise is forgotten!

And you, O wall — O sweet, O lovely wall —

standing between her father's land and mine!

You wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall,

show me your crack, to peep through with my eyes!

Thank you, courteous wall. May Jupiter protect you for this.

But what do I see? No Thisbe do I see.

O wicked wall, through whom I see no happiness!

Cursed be your stones for deceiving me! (He thanks the wall and curses it inside four lines, for the same thing.)

The wall, being capable of feeling, ought to curse back.

No, truly, sir, he shouldn't. 'Deceiving me' is

Thisbe's cue. She's to come on now, and I'm to spot her

through the wall. You'll see — it'll happen exactly as I

said. Here she comes now. (He has stepped out of the play to explain the play to the Duke, mid-performance.)

O wall, how often you have heard my moans

for keeping my fair Pyramus and me apart!

My cherry lips have often kissed your stones —

your stones, knitted together with plaster and hair.

I see a voice! Now I'll go to the crack

to see whether I can hear my Thisbe's face. (Two senses swapped, twice, in two lines.)

Thisbe!

You are my love, my love I think.

Think what you like, I am your lover's grace,

and like Leander I am faithful still.

And I like Hero, till the Fates kill me. (They mean Leander and Hero. They have both got the names wrong, and matched each other's errors.)

Not Cephalus to Procris was so faithful.

As Cephalus to Procris, so am I to you.

Oh, kiss me through the hole in this vile wall!

I'm kissing the wall's hole, not your lips at all.

Will you meet me at Ninny's tomb right away?

Come life or death, I'll come without delay.

So I, Wall, have performed my part,

and having done it, Wall now goes away.

Now the wall is down between the two neighbours.

No help for it, my lord, when walls are so wilful as to listen

without warning.

This is the silliest thing I've ever heard.

The best of this kind are only shadows — and the worst

are no worse, if imagination improves them. (An actor on a stage telling an audience that all theatre is shadows, in a play about dreams.)

Then it must be your imagination doing it, not theirs.

If we think no worse of them than they think of themselves,

they'll pass for excellent men. Here come two noble

beasts — a man and a lion.

You ladies, whose gentle hearts are frightened

by the smallest monstrous mouse that creeps across a floor,

may possibly quake and tremble here now,

when a rough lion roars in wildest rage.

So know that I, Snug the joiner, am

neither a fierce lion nor a lion's mother.

Because if I came in here as a lion looking for a fight,

it would go very badly for me. (The prologue they invented in Act 3 to stop the ladies fainting. They actually did it.)

A very gentle beast, and of good conscience.

The very best beast I ever saw, my lord.

This lion is a complete fox where courage is concerned.

True — and a goose where judgment is concerned.

Not so, my lord — his courage can't carry his

judgment, and a fox carries a goose.

His judgment certainly can't carry his courage,

because a goose doesn't carry a fox. Never mind — leave it

to his judgment, and let's listen to the moon.

This lantern represents the horned moon—

He should have worn the horns on his own head. (A cuckold joke. The court cannot resist a single opening.)

He's no crescent moon, and his horns are invisible inside

his own circumference.

This lantern represents the horned moon;

I myself seem to be the man in the moon.

This is the biggest mistake of the lot. The man

ought to be put inside the lantern. Otherwise how is he

the man IN the moon?

He doesn't dare go in because of the candle. As you can see,

it's already smoking. (Also means 'in a temper.')

I'm tired of this moon. I wish he'd change!

By the feeble light of his judgment it appears he's

waning. But out of courtesy, and in all fairness, we

must wait it out.

Carry on, Moon.

All I have to say is to tell you that the

lantern is the moon, I'm the man in the moon, this

thorn bush is my thorn bush and this dog is my dog. (Heckled out of his verse, he gives up and just states the facts. It is the best moment in their play.)

Why, all of those should be inside the lantern — they're all

in the moon. But quiet — here comes Thisbe.

This is old Ninny's tomb. Where is my love?

Roar!

Well roared, Lion.

Well run, Thisbe.

Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon is shining very gracefully.

Well pounced, Lion.

And then came Pyramus.

And so the lion vanished.

Sweet Moon, I thank you for your sunny beams.

I thank you, Moon, for shining now so brightly,

because by your gracious, golden, glittering gleams

I hope to catch sight of truest Thisbe.

But wait — oh, cruelty!

But look, poor knight,

what dreadful grief is here!

Eyes, do you see?

How can it be?

O dainty duck! O dear!

Your good cloak —

what, stained with blood!

Approach, you fierce Furies!

O Fates, come, come,

cut thread and thrum,

subdue, crush, conclude and kill!

This much emotion, plus the death of a dear friend, would go

some way toward making a man look sad.

Curse my heart — but I do pity the man. (She said she'd hate watching this. She is the only one who feels for them.)

O why, Nature, did you create lions,

since a vile lion has here deflowered my darling —

who is — no, no — who WAS the fairest lady

that lived, that loved, that was liked, that looked so cheerful.

Come, tears, destroy me!

Out, sword, and wound

the breast of Pyramus —

yes, that left breast,

where the heart does hop.

So I die — thus, thus, thus.

Now I am dead,

now I have fled,

my soul is in the sky.

Tongue, lose your light;

Moon, take your flight.

Now die, die, die, die, die. (He is given five deaths and takes all of them.)

Not a die — a single spot, since he's only one. (A pun: 'die' also meant one dice.)

Less than one spot, man — he's dead, he's nothing.

With a surgeon's help he might still recover, and

prove to be an ass. (Nobody at court knows how close that is to the truth.)

How is it Moonshine has left before Thisbe comes back

and finds her lover?

She'll find him by starlight. Here she comes, and

her grief ends the play.

I shouldn't think she'd need a long one for a

Pyramus like that. I hope she'll be brief.

A speck of dust would tip the scales as to which is better —

Pyramus or Thisbe: him as a man, God help us, her

as a woman, God bless us.

She's spotted him already with those sweet eyes.

Asleep, my love?

What, dead, my dove?

O Pyramus, get up!

Speak, speak! Completely silent?

Dead, dead? A tomb

must cover your sweet eyes.

These lily lips,

this cherry nose,

these yellow cowslip cheeks,

are gone, are gone.

Lovers, mourn!

His eyes were green as leeks. (She is describing a corpse with a cherry nose and leek-green eyes. It is meant to be beautiful.)

O you three Fates,

come, come to me

with hands as pale as milk.

Dip them in gore,

since you have sheared

his silk thread with your scissors.

Tongue, not a word!

Come, trusty sword,

come, blade, drench my breast!

And farewell, friends.

So Thisbe ends.

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead.

Yes, and Wall too.

No, I assure you — the wall that separated their

fathers is down. Would you like to see the epilogue, or to

watch a country dance between two of our company? (He gets up from the dead to argue a staging point.)

No epilogue, please. Your play needs no

excuses. Never make excuses — when all the actors are

dead there's nobody left to blame. Though if the man who

wrote it had played Pyramus and hanged himself in

Thisbe's garter, it would have been a fine tragedy. And

so it is, truly, and very notably performed. But come —

your country dance. Never mind the epilogue.

The iron tongue of midnight has struck twelve.

Lovers, to bed. It's almost fairy time.

I'm afraid we'll sleep past the coming morning

by as much as we've stayed up tonight.

This obviously crude play has nicely tricked away

the slow pace of the night. Sweet friends, to bed.

We'll keep this celebration up for a fortnight,

with nightly parties and fresh entertainment.

Now the hungry lion roars,

and the wolf howls at the moon,

while the exhausted ploughman snores,

all worn out by hard work.

Now the burnt-down logs glow

while the screech-owl, screeching loudly,

reminds the wretch lying in misery

of a burial shroud.

Now it's the time of night

when the graves all gape wide open

and each lets out its ghost

to glide along the churchyard paths.

And we fairies, who run

in the train of the triple goddess,

away from the sun's presence,

following darkness like a dream,

are now at play. Not a mouse

will disturb this blessed house.

I've been sent ahead with a broom

to sweep the dust behind the door.

Fill the house with glimmering light

from the dying, drowsy fire.

Every elf and fairy spirit,

hop as lightly as a bird off a briar,

and sing and dance this song after me,

nimbly.

First learn your song by heart,

a trilled note for every word.

Hand in hand, with fairy grace,

we'll sing and bless this place.

Now, until daybreak,

let every fairy wander through this house.

We'll go to the finest marriage bed,

which we'll bless,

and the children conceived there

will always be lucky.

So all three couples

will be forever faithful in love,

and the blemishes of Nature's hand

won't appear in their children.

No mole, no cleft lip, no scar,

no ominous birthmark of the kind

that people despise at birth,

will be on their children.

With this consecrated field dew,

let every fairy go on his way

and bless each separate room

throughout this palace with sweet peace.

And may the owner of it be blessed

and always rest in safety.

Off you go — don't linger.

Meet me all by daybreak.

If we shadows have offended you,

just think this, and it's all put right:

that you've only been dozing here

while these visions appeared.

And this feeble, trivial story,

yielding no more than a dream —

ladies and gentlemen, don't condemn it.

If you forgive us, we'll do better.

And as I'm an honest Puck,

if we're lucky enough, undeservedly,

to escape the hiss of the audience now,

we'll make it up to you before long —

or else call Puck a liar.

So, good night to you all.

Give me your hands — that is, applaud — if we're friends,

and Robin will put everything right.