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[Enter Thisby.]

The. She will find him by starlight. Here she comes, and her passion ends the play.

Hip. Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus. I hope she will be brief.

Dem. A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisby, is the better: he for a man. God warr’nt us; she for a woman. God bless us.

Lys. She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes.

Dem. And thus she means, videlicet—

This.

Asleep, my love?

What, dead, my dove?

O Pyramus, arise!

Speak, speak! Quite dumb?

Dead, dead? A tomb

Must cover thy sweet eyes.

These lily lips,

This cherry nose,

These yellow cowslip cheeks,

Are gone, are gone!

Lovers, make moan;

His eyes were green as leeks.

O Sisters Three,

Come, come to me,

With hands as pale as milk;

Lay them in gore,

Since you have shore

With shears his thread of silk.

Tongue, not a word!

Come, trusty sword,

Come, blade, my breast imbrue!

[Stabs herself.]

And farewell, friends;

Thus Thisby ends;

Adieu, adieu, adieu.

[Dies]

The. Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead.