Duke. It appears by his small light of discretion, that hee is in the wane: but yet in courtefie, in all reason, we muft stay the time.

Lyfand. Proceed Moone.

Moone. All that I have to fay, is to tell you, that the lanthorne is the moone; I, the man in the moone; this thorne bush, my thorne bufh, and this dog, my dog.

Deme. Why all these should bee in the lanthorne: for they are in the moone. But filence, heere comes Thisby.

Dutch. Well fhone Moone. Truely the Moone fhines with

a good grace.

Duke. Well mouz'd Lyon.

Dem. And then came Piramus.

Lyf. And fo the Lyon vanisht.

Enter Piramus.

Pyr. Sweet Moone, I thank thee for thy funny beames,

I thank thee Moone, for fhining now fo bright.

For by thy gracious, golden, glittering beames,
I trust to take of truest Thifbie fight.

:

But stay ô fpight! but marke, poore knight,
What dreadful dole is here?

Eyes do you fee! how can it be !

O dainty ducke, ô deare!

Thy mantle good, what ftaind with blood?
Approach ye furies fell,

O fates come, come, cut thred and thrum,
Quaile, crush, conclude, and quell.

Duke.

Duke. This paffion, and the death of a deare friend would goe neere to make a man looke fad,

Dutch. Befhrew my heart, but I pitty the man.

Pir. O'wherefore nature, didft thou lyons frame?
Since lyon vilde hath heere deflour'd my deare;
Which is, no, no, which was the fairest dame

That liu'd, that lou'd, that lik't, that look't with cheere.
Come teares confound, out fword and wound

The pap of Piramus:

I, that left pap, where heart doth hop;

Thus die I, thus, thus, thus.

Now am I dead, now am I fled, my foule, is in the fky,
Tongue lofe thy light, moone take thy flight,

Now dye, dye, dye, dye, dye.

Dem. No die, but an ace for him; for he is but one.
Lyf. Leffe then an ace man.

thing.

For he is dead, he is no

Duke. With the helpe of a furgeon, he might yet recouer and proue an affe.

Dutch. How chance Moone-fbine is gone before?

Thisby comes backe, and findes her louer.

Duke. She will finde him by ftar-light. Here he comes, and her paffion ends the play.

Dut. Me-thinks she should not vfe a long one for fuch a Piramus: I hope fhe will be briefe.

Dem. A moth will turne the ballance, which Piramus, which Thifbie is the better: hee for a man, God warnd vs; she for a woman, God blesse vs.

Lyf. She hath fpied him already, with thofe fweete eies. Dem. And thus fhe meanes, videlicit.

Thif. Afleepe my loue? What, dead my doue?

O Piramus arise,

Speake, fpeake. Quite dumbe! Dead, dead? A toombe

Muft cover thy fweet eies.

Thefe

Thefe lilly lips, this cherry nose,
Thefe yellow cowflip cheekes

Are gone, are gone; louers make mone:
His eyes were greene as leekes.

O fifters three, come, come to me,
With hands as pale as milke,

Lay them in gore, fince you haue shore
With fheeres, his thred of filke.
Tongue not a word, come trufty fword,
Come blade, my breaft imbrew:
And farwell friends, thus Thibie ends;
Adieu, adieu, adieu.

Duke. Moon-fbine and Lyon are left to bury the dead.
Deme. I and Wall too.

Lyon. No, I affure you the wall is downe, that parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the Epilogue, or to heare a Bergomask dance, betweene two of our company?

Duke. No Epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no excuse. Neuer excufe; for when the players are all dead, there need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ it, had plaid Piramus, and hang'd himfelfe in Thifbies garter, it would haue beene a fine tragedy and fo it is truely, and very notably discharg'd. But come, your Burgomaske; let your Epilogue alone.

The iron tongue of midnight hath tolde twelue.
Louers to bed, tis almost fairy time.

I feare we shall out-fleepe the comming morne,
As much as we this night haue ouer-watcht.
This palpable groffe play hath well beguil'd
The heauy gate of night. Sweet friends to bed.
A fortnight hold we this folemnity,
In nightly reuels, and new iollity.

Exeunt.

Enter

Now to scape the serpents tongue,

We will make amends ere long :
Elfe the Pucke a lyar call.

So good night vnto you all.
Giue me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin fhall restore amends.

FINI S.

Pleasant and Excellent Conceited

COMEDY,

O F

Sir IOHN FALSTAFFE,

AND THE

Merry Wiues of Windfor.

WITH THE

Swaggering Vaine of Ancient PISTOLL, and Corporall NYм.

WRITTEN
IN BY

W. SHAKESPEARE.

Printed for ARTHUR JOHNSON, 1619.