MOON. All that I have to say, is to tell you that the lantern is the moon; I the man i’ the moon; this thorn-bush my thorn-bush; and this dog my dog. DEMETRIUS. Why, all these should be in the lantern, for all these are in the moon. But silence; here comes Thisbe. Enter Thisbe. THISBE. This is old Ninny’s tomb. Where is my love? LION. Oh! [_The Lion roars, Thisbe runs off._] DEMETRIUS. Well roared, Lion. THESEUS. Well run, Thisbe. HIPPOLYTA. Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines with a good grace. [_The Lion tears Thisbe’s mantle, and exit._] THESEUS. Well moused, Lion. DEMETRIUS. And then came Pyramus. LYSANDER. And so the lion vanished. 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 take of truest Thisbe 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, stained with blood? Approach, ye Furies fell! O Fates, come, come; Cut thread and thrum; Quail, rush, conclude, and quell! THESEUS. This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad. HIPPOLYTA. Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man. PYRAMUS. O wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame, Since lion vile hath here deflower’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 prove an ass. HIPPOLYTA. How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover? THESEUS. She will find him by starlight. Enter Thisbe. Here she comes, and her passion ends the play. HIPPOLYTA. Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus. I hope she will be brief. 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! LYSANDER. She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes. DEMETRIUS. And thus she means, _videlicet_—