Comparison of William Shakespeare Midsummer Night's Dream 4.1 to William Shakespeare

Scratch my head, Peaseblossom. Where’s mounsieur Cobweb?

Mounsieur Cobweb, good mounsieur, get you your weapons in your hand, and kill me a red-hipp’d humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good mounsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, mounsieur; and, good mounsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not, I would be loath to have you overflowen with a honey-bag, signior. Where’s mounsieur Mustardseed?

Give me your neaf, mounsieur Mustardseed. Pray you, leave your curtsy, good mounsieur.

What’s your will?

Nothing, good mounsieur, but to help Cavalery Cobweb to scratch. I must to the barber’s, mounsieur; for methinks I am marvail’s hairy about the face; and I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch.

What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet love?

I have a reasonable good ear in music. Let’s have the tongs and the bones.

I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas. But, I pray you, let none of your people stir me; I have an exposition of sleep come upon me.

O, how I love thee! How I dote on thee!

When I had at my pleasure taunted her,

To bear him to my bower in fairy land.

May all to Athens back again repair,

Be as thou wast wont to be;

See as thou wast wont to see.

Now, my Titania, wake you, my sweet queen.

My Oberon, what visions have I seen!

There lies your love. How came these things to pass?

Now, when thou wak’st, with thine own fool’s eyes peep.

Sound, music! Come, my queen, take hands with me,

And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be.

We will, fair queen, up to the mountain’s top,

And mark the musical confusion

Seem all one mutual cry. I never heard

So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.

It is, my lord.

Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with their horns.

Begin these wood-birds but to couple now?

Pardon, my lord. I pray you all, stand up.

I know you two are rival enemies.

How comes this gentle concord in the world,

And now I do bethink me, so it is —

You of your wife, and me of my consent,

Of my consent that she should be your wife.

But, my good lord, I wot not by what power

(But by some power it is), my love to Hermia

(Melted as the snow) seems to me now

As the remembrance of an idle gaud,

Mine own, and not mine own. Are you sure

That we are awake? It seems to me

That yet we sleep, we dream. Do not you think

Why then, we are awake. Let’s follow him,

And by the way let’s recount our dreams.

When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer. My next is, “Most fair Pyramus.” Heigh-ho! Peter Quince! Flute the bellows-mender! Snout the tinker! Starveling! God’s my life, stol’n hence, and left me asleep! I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was. Man is but an ass, if he go about t’ expound this dream. Methought I was — there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had — but man is but a patch’d fool, if he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballet of this dream. It shall be call’d “Bottom’s Dream,” because it hath no bottom; and I will sing it in the latter end of a play, before the Duke. Peradventure, to make it the more gracious, I shall sing it at her death.