The.
More strange than true. I never may believe
These antic fables, nor these fairy toys.
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all compact.
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold;
That is the madman. The lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt.
The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to aery nothing
A local habitation and a name.
Such tricks hath strong imagination,
That if it would but apprehend some joy,
It comprehends some bringer of that joy;
Or in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush suppos’d a bear!
Hip.
But all the story of the night told over,
And all their minds transfigur’d so together,
More witnesseth than fancy’s images,
And grows to something of great constancy;
But howsoever, strange and admirable.
Enter lovers, Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, and Helena.
The.
Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.
Joy, gentle friends, joy and fresh days of love
Accompany your hearts!
Lys.
More than to us
Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed!
The.
Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have,
To wear away this long age of three hours
Between [our] after-supper and bed-time?
Where is our usual manager of mirth?
What revels are in hand? Is there no play
To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?
Call Philostrate.
Phil.
Here, mighty Theseus.
The.
Say, what abridgment have you for this evening?
What masque? what music? How shall we beguile
The lazy time, if not with some delight?
Phil.
There is a brief how many sports are ripe.
Make choice of which your Highness will see first.
[Giving a paper.]
The. [Reads.]
“The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung
By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.”
We’ll none of that: that have I told my love,
In glory of my kinsman Hercules.
“The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals,
Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.”
That is an old device; and it was play’d
When I from Thebes came last a conqueror.
“The thrice three Muses mourning for the death
Of Learning, late deceas’d in beggary.”
That is some satire, keen and critical,
Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony.
“A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus
And his love Thisby; very tragical mirth.”
Merry and tragical? Tedious and brief?
That is hot ice and wondrous strange snow.
How shall we find the concord of this discord?
Phil.
A play there is, my lord, some ten words long,
Which is as brief as I have known a play;
But by ten words, my lord, it is too long,
Which makes it tedious; for in all the play
There is not one word apt, one player fitted.
And tragical, my noble lord, it is;
For Pyramus therein doth kill himself;
Which when I saw rehears’d, I must confess,
Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears
The passion of loud laughter never shed.
The.
What are they that do play it?
Phil.
Hard-handed men that work in Athens here,
Which never labor’d in their minds till now;
And now have toiled their unbreathed memories
With this same play, against your nuptial.
The.
And we will hear it.
Phil.
No, my noble lord,
It is not for you. I have heard it over,
And it is nothing, nothing in the world;
Unless you can find sport in their intents,
Extremely stretch’d, and conn’d with cruel pain,
To do you service.
The.
I will hear that play;
For never any thing can be amiss,
When simpleness and duty tender it.
Go bring them in; and take your places, ladies.
[Exit Philostrate.]
Hip.
I love not to see wretchedness o’ercharged,
And duty in his service perishing.
The.
Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing.
Hip.
He says they can do nothing in this kind.