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Must I speak now?

Must I speak now?
Ay, marry, must you, for you must understand
he goes but to see a noise that he heard and is to
come again.

Methinks, mistress, you should have little
reason for that. And yet, to say the truth, reason
and love keep little company together nowadays.

Flute, as Thisbe

Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue,
Of color like the red rose on triumphant brier,
Most brisky juvenal and eke most lovely Jew,
As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire.
I’ll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny’s tomb.

“Ninus’ tomb,” man! Why, you must not speak
that yet. That you answer to Pyramus. You
speak all your part at once, cues and all.—Pyramus,
enter. Your cue is past. It is “never tire.”
As Thisbe.

As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire.

 Enter Robin, and Bottom as Pyramus with the ass-head.
Bottom, as Pyramus 

If I were fair, fair Thisbe, I were only thine.

O monstrous! O strange! We are haunted. Pray,
masters, fly, masters! Help!
 Quince, Flute, Snout, Snug, and Starveling exit.
I’ll follow you. I’ll lead you about a round,
 Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier.
Sometime a horse I’ll be, sometime a hound,
 A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire,
And neigh and bark and grunt and roar and burn,
Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn.
 He exits.
Why do they run away? This is a knavery of
them to make me afeard.
 Enter Snout.
O Bottom, thou art changed! What do I see on thee?
What do you see? You see an ass-head of your own, do you?
 Snout exits. Enter Quince.
Bless thee, Bottom, bless thee! Thou art translated!
 He exits.
I see their knavery. This is to make an ass of
me, to fright me, if they could. But I will not stir
from this place, do what they can. I will walk up
and down here, and I will sing, that they shall hear
I am not afraid.
 He sings.

The ouzel cock, so black of hue,
 With orange-tawny bill,
The throstle with his note so true,
 The wren with little quill—

Titania, waking up
What angel wakes me from my flow’ry bed?
Bottom sings 

The finch, the sparrow, and the lark,
 The plainsong cuckoo gray,
Whose note full many a man doth mark
 And dares not answer “nay”—

for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a
bird? Who would give a bird the lie though he cry
“cuckoo” never so?
I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again.
Mine ear is much enamored of thy note,
So is mine eye enthrallèd to thy shape,
And thy fair virtue’s force perforce doth move me
On the first view to say, to swear, I love thee.
Methinks, mistress, you should have little
reason for that. And yet, to say the truth, reason
and love keep little company together nowadays.
The more the pity that some honest neighbors will
not make them friends. Nay, I can gleek upon occasion.
Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.
Not so neither; but if I had wit enough to get out of
this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn.
Out of this wood do not desire to go.
Thou shalt remain here whether thou wilt or no.
I am a spirit of no common rate.
The summer still doth tend upon my state,
And I do love thee. Therefore go with me.
I’ll give thee fairies to attend on thee,
And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep
And sing while thou on pressèd flowers dost sleep.
And I will purge thy mortal grossness so
That thou shalt like an airy spirit go.—
Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Mote, and Mustardseed!

Act 3
Scene 1
Line 88

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