MOON. All that I have to say, is, to tell you, that the lanthorn is the moon; I, the Man-in-the-moon; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog.

DEMETRIUS. Why, all these should be in the lanthorn; for they are in the moon.

But silence! here comes Thisbe.

Enter THISBE.

THISBE.

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

HIPPOLYTA.

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 taste of truest Thisby's 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! stain'd with blood?
Approach, you Furies fell!

O Fates! come, come;
Cut thread and thrum ;

Quail, crush, conclude, and quell!"

THESEUS.

go near to make a man look sad.

This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would

Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.

"O, wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame, Since lion vild hath here deflour'd my dear? Which is no, no-which was the fairest dame,

That liv'd, that lov'd, that lik'd, that look'd with cheer.

Come, tears, confound;
Out, sword, and wound
The pap of Pyramus :

Ay, that left pap,
Where heart doth hop:
Thus die I, thus, thus, thus !
Now am I dead,

Now am I fled ;

My soul is in the sky:

Tongue, lose thy light!
Moon, take thy flight!
Now die, die, die, die, die."

[Dies. - Exit Moonshine.

DEMETRIUS. No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one.
LYSANDER. Less than an ace, man, for he is dead; he is nothing.
THESEUS. With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover, and
yet prove an ass.

HIPPOLYTA. How chance Moonshine is gone, before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover?

THESEUS. She will find him by starlight. Here she comes, and her passion ends the play.

Enter THISBE.

HIPPOLYTA. Methinks she should not use a long one for such a
Pyramus I hope she will be brief.

LYSANDER.
DEMETRIUS.

DEMETRIUS. A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisbe, is the better; he for a man, God warrant us; she for a woman, God bless us.

She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes.
And thus she moans, videlicet.

THISBE.