Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, [Philostrate,] with others.
THESEUS Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour
Draws on apace. Four happy days bring in
Another moon; but O, methinks, how slow
This old moon wanes! She lingers my desires,
Like to a stepdame or a dowager
Long withering out a young man’s revenue.
HIPPOLYTA Four days will quickly steep themselves in night,
Four nights will quickly dream away the time;
And then the moon, like to a silver bow
Now bent in heaven, shall behold the night
Of our solemnities. (1.1.1-11)
And so it begins… There’s precision about time, and impatience, at least from one of the interested parties, Theseus, the Athenian duke, as he addresses his betrothed: Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour draws on apace. Now as in right now, this instant, or slightly admonitory, now, now, focus? It can be both. And, they’re getting married! Really soon, it’ll be time before you know it! Nuptial hour is even more precise than wedding day, and slightly ominous? This human event is immediately set in a larger context, though: four happy days bring in another moon—the moon is waning, it’s almost a new one (and happy might be moot)—and so the nights are dark; it’s a time of endings, as well as the anticipation of new beginnings. But Theseus thinks that time is dragging, O, methinks how slow this old moon wanes! She’s taking her time! And a rather clumsy, sexist attempt at humour, although a conventional one: she, the moon, lingers my desires—she’s deliberately slowing things down, making me wait—like to a stepdame or a dowager long withering out a young man’s revenue. The moon here is a maternal figure, and a powerful one, still holding the purse strings, controlling, delaying the marriage of the heir.
Hippolyta would be forgiven a long, long sigh, and in some productions she’s outright hostile to her betrothed, a trophy, a spoil of war. But she offers reasonable reassurance, as one might to a child: four days will quickly steep themselves in night, four nights will quickly dream away the time. Theseus’s language is human in scale, a bit petty; Hippolyta is mysterious, global, imagining day falling, plunging into night as into an ocean—the sun setting—being drowned in it, intoxicated, soaked, changed in colour and its very nature—and nights are, of course, a time of dreaming, out of time, the blink of an eye, and an eternity. DREAM, right there in the play’s opening. And then the moon, like to a silver bow now bent in heaven—Hippolyta’s now is elevated, gazing upwards, tense, taut as it runs from line to line, as it awaits release—shall behold the night of our solemnities. It’ll be our wedding night before you know it—and she’s actually being more precise: that’s what you’re really talking about, aren’t you, Theseus?
