Unknown to the lovers, that same wood was chosen as a meeting-place for the following night by a very different set of people. Several of the petty artisans of Athens, anxious to celebrate the wedding in proper style, had decided to perform a little play--or “interlude,” as it was called--in the presence of the Duke and Duchess. Quince, the carpenter, was supposed to direct the proceedings of this little band of amateur actors, but the ruling spirit of the company was in reality Bottom, the weaver. Bursting with self-conceit, never able to keep silent a moment, Bottom was ready to instruct everyone else in his duties, and if it had only been possible for him to have played every character in the piece, in addition to his own, he would have been quite content. As each part was mentioned, and Quince began to apportion them out, Bottom’s voice was heard again and again, declaring how well _he_ could perform each one. The play was to be “The Most Lamentable Comedy and Most Cruel Death of Pyramus and Thisby,” and Bottom was selected for Pyramus, the hero. “What is Pyramus--a lover or a tyrant?” he inquired. “A lover that kills himself most gallantly for love,” answered Quince. “That will ask some tears in the true performing of it,” said Bottom, swelling with self-importance. “If _I_ do it, let the audience look to their eyes.” The next character was Thisby, the heroine, and this was given to Flute, the bellows-mender, a thin, lanky youth with a squeaky voice. “Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming,” he said piteously. “That’s all one; you shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will,” said Quince. “If I hide my face, let _me_ play Thisby, too,” cried Bottom eagerly. “I’ll speak in a monstrous little voice. ‘Thisne, Thisne!’ ‘Ah, Pyramus, my lover dear! Thy Thisby dear, and lady dear!’” “No, no! you must play Pyramus, and, Flute, you Thisby,” said Quince. “Well, proceed,” said Bottom. Quince went on with his list, and presently he called out the name of Snug, the joiner. “You will play the lion’s part, Snug,” he said; “and now, I hope, there is the play fitted.” “Have you the lion’s part written? Pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of study,” said Snug modestly, for he was a very meek and mild little man. “You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring,” said Quince. “Let _me_ play the lion, too,” burst in Bottom. “I will roar that it will do any man’s heart good to hear me. I will roar that I will make the Duke say: ‘Let him roar again.’” “If you should do it too terribly, you would frighten the Duchess and the ladies out of their wits, so that they would shriek, and that were enough to hang us all,” said Quince. “That would hang us, every mother’s son,” agreed the rest of the little band, quaking with terror.