STARVELING I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done.
BOTTOM Not a whit. I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue, and let the prologue seem to say we will do no harm with our swords, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed; and for the more better assurance, tell them that I, Pyramus, am not Pyramus, but Bottom the weaver. This will put them out of fear.
QUINCE Well, we will have such a prologue, and it shall be written in eight and six.
BOTTOM No, make it two more. Let it be written in eight and eight. (3.1.13-24)
Starveling’s just worried, gloomy, pessimistic, defeated—perhaps this is a conversation that’s been taking place in corners for a while, perhaps it’s just occurred to him too: I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done. That’d be the easiest thing, wouldn’t it, I mean, there’s no other possible solution, best to play it safe? Not a whit! Bottom to the rescue, he’s got a solution, I have a device to make all well. I have a cunning plan! We can sort this, people! So—to Quince—write me a prologue—OK—and let the prologue seem to say we will do no harm with our swords—OK, if perhaps a bit much?—and that Pyramus is not killed indeed—OK, but people surely… I mean, if they’re watching a play?—and for the more better assurance, just to be on the safe side, belt and braces, absolutely, tell them that I, Pyramus, am not Pyramus, but Bottom the weaver. This will put them out of fear. That’ll do it. Fourth wall, shattered, O Brecht, thou shouldst be living at this hour, etc. Snout’s delighted (perhaps he too is shaky on the nature of theatrical illusion?), Starveling anxiously concedes that this might indeed be a way forward, and Quince, after a beat, realises that, once again, this is the path of least resistance. Well, we will have such a prologue, and it shall be written in eight and six. I will at least retain creative control… Eight and six, as editors will point out, is ballad metre, alternate lines of eight and six syllables—but it also, just, recalls the fourteen lines of a sonnet, octave and sestet, like the prologue of Romeo and Juliet… Bottom has to have the last word, though: no, make it two more. Let it be written in eight and eight. (Bottom has no idea about metre and versification, eight and eight is meaningless, but he doesn’t want anyone to feel short-changed, and more is always more.)
