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Enter QUINCE for the Prologue.

Prol. If we offend, it is with our good will. That you should think, we come not to of fend,

109 But with good will. To show our simple skill, That is the true beginning of our end. Consider then we come but in despite.

112

We do not come as minding 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, 116 You shall know all that you are like to know. The. This fellow doth not stand upon points. Lys. He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; he knows not the stop. A good moral, my lord: it is not enough to speak, but to speak true.

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160

Wall. In this same interlude it doth befall That I, one Snout by name, present a wall; And such a wall, as I would have you think, That had in it a crannied hole or chink, Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby, Did whisper often very secretly. This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone doth show

That I am that same wall; the truth is so; 164 And this the cranny is, right and sinister, Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper.

The. Would you desire lime and hair to speak better?

168

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I fear my Thisby's promise is forgot. And thou, O wall! O sweet, O lovely wall! 176 That stand'st between her father's ground and mine;

Thou wall, O wall! O sweet, and lovely wall! Show me thy chink to blink through with mine eyne. [WALL holds up his fingers. Thanks, courteous wall: Jove shield thee well for this!

180

But what see I? No Thisby do I see. O wicked wall! through whom I see no bliss; Curs'd be thy stones for thus deceiving me! The. The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again. 185

Pyr. No, in truth, sir, he should not. 'Deceiving me,' is Thisby's cue: she is to enter now, and I am to spy her through the wall. You shall see, it will fall pat as I told you. Yonder she comes.

148 He bravely broach'd his boiling bloody breast;

Re-enter THISBE.

This. O wall! full often hast thou heard my

moans,

For parting my fair Pyramus and me: 192

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The. True; and a goose for his discretion. 237 Dem. Not so, my lord; for his valour cannot carry his discretion, and the fox carries the goose.

240

The. His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his valour, for the goose carries not the fox. It is well: leave it to his discretion, and let us listen to the moon.

244 Moon. This lanthorn doth the horned moon present;

Dem. He should have worn the horns on his head.

The. He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the circumference.

249 Moon. This lanthorn doth the horned moon present;

Myself the man i' the moon do seem to be.

The. This is the greatest error of all the rest. The man should be put into the lanthorn: how is it else the man i' the moon?

Dem. He dares not come there for the candle; for, you see, it is already in snuff.

256 Hip. I am aweary of this moon: would he would change!

The. It appears, by his small light of discretion, that he is in the wane; but yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time.

Lys. Proceed, Moon.

261

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Speak, speak! Quite dumb?
Dead, dead! A tomb

Must cover thy sweet eyes.
These lily lips,

This cherry nose,

These yellow cowslip cheeks,
Are gone, are gone:

Lovers, make moan!

His eyes were green as leeks.
Ó, Sisters Three,
Come, come to me,
With hands as pale as milk;

Lay them in gore,
Since you have shore
With shears his thread of silk.
Tongue, not a word:
Come, trusty sword:

Come, blade, my breast imbrue:

336

340

344

348

352

[Stabs herself.

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Tongue, lose thy light! Moon, take thy flight!

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312 [Exit MOONSHINE. Now die, die, die, die, die. [Dies. Dem. No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one.

Lys. Less than an ace, man, for he is dead; he is nothing. 317 The. With the help of a surgeon, he might yet recover, and prove an ass.

Hip. How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover? 321 The. She will find him by starlight. Here she comes; and her passion ends the play.

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The. Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the

dead.

Dem. Ay, and Wall too.

357

Bot. No, I assure you; the wall is down that parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance between two of our company?

362

The. No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no excuse. Never excuse; for when the players are all dead, there need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ 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 discharged. But come, your Bergomask: let your epilogue alone. [A dance.

373

The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve;
Lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time.
I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn,
As much as we this night have overwatch'd.
This palpable-gross play hath well beguil'd 376
The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed.
A fortnight hold we this solemnity,
In nightly revels, and new jollity.

SCENE II. Enter PUCK.

Puck. Now the hungry lion roars,

[Exeunt.

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Meet me all by break of day.

52

[Exeunt OBERON, TITANIA, and Train.

Puck. If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprchend:
If you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I'm an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck

Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call:

So, good night unto you all.

56

60

64

Give me your hands, if we be friends, 68 And Robin shall restore amends. [Exit.

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JESSICA, Daughter to Shylock.

Friends to Antonio and Bassanio. NERISSA, her Waiting-maid.

PRINCE OF MOROCCO,

PRINCE OF ARRAGON,

BASSANIO, his Friend.

GRATIANO,

SALANIO,

SALARINO,

LORENZO, in love with Jessica.

SHYLOCK, a rich Jew.

TUBAL, a Jew, his Friend.

LAUNCELOT GOBBO, a Clown, Servant to Shylock.

Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court
Justice, Gaoler, Servants to Portia, and othe
Attendants.

SCENE.-Partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont, the seat of Portia, on the Continent.

ACT I.

SCENE I.-Venice. A Street.
Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SALANIO.
Ant. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad:
It wearies me; you say it wearies you;

But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn;

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,
That I have much ado to know myself.

4

Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean; 8
There, where your argosies with portly sail,-
Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,
Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,—
Do overpeer the petty traffickers,
That curtsy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Salan. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,
The better part of my affections would

And see the holy edifice of stone,

E

And not bethink me straight of dangerous rock
Which touching but my gentle vessel's side
Would scatter all her spices on the stream,
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks;
And, in a word, but even now worth this,
And now worth nothing? Shall I have th
thought

To think on this, and shall I lack the thought
That such a thing bechanc'd would make me sad
But tell not me: I know Antonio

Is sad to think upon his merchandise.

Ant. Believe me, no: I thank my fortun
for it,

My ventures are not in one bottom trusted,
12 Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate
Upon the fortune of this present year:
Therefore, my merchandise makes me not sa
Salar. Why, then you are in love.
Ant.
Fie, fie!
Salar. Not in love neither? Then let's sa
you are sad,

16

Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still
Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind;
Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads;
And every object that might make me fear
Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt
Would make me sad.

20

Salar.
My wind, cooling my broth,
Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
What harm a wind too great might do at sea. 24
I should not see the sandy hour-glass run
But I should think of shallows and of flats,
And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand
Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church

28

Because you are not merry: and 'twere as eas
For you to laugh and leap, and say you ar
merry,

Because you are not sad. Now, by two-heade
Janus,

Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time
Some that will evermore peep through their eye
And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper,
And other of such vinegar aspect

That they'll not show their teeth in way
smile,

Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

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