(Bottom wakes.)

BOTTOM        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? Gods my life! Stolen 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 to 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 patched 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 ballad of this dream. It shall be called ‘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.     Exit.            (4.1.199-217)

Like the lovers, Bottom doesn’t know whether he’s awake or asleep at first; he thinks he’s dropped off at the rehearsal and, as ever, he’s giving orders: when my cue comes, call me, and I will answer. My next—cue—is, ‘Most fair Pyramus’. Heigh-ho! More awake. Where’s everyone gone? Peter Quince? Flute the bellows-mender? Snout the tinker? Starveling? Gods my life, bless me, stolen hence, and left me asleep? Have they played a trick on me, or just abandoned me?

But: wonderingly, confidingly? I have had a most rare vision. Mad times! I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was. NO ONE would be able to say what it was like, no one. And no one should even try: man is but an ass if he go about to expound this dream. You’d be a fool to attempt it. (Ass. Groan.) Methought I was – there is no man can tell what. Can’t quite put it into words, NO ONE could. But, then again: methought I was – and methought I had – but man is but a patched fool if he will offer to say what methought I had. Ahem. There can be the odd gesture to ears—where have they gone? or to a recently very hairy face, or a tail. (Or to other, baser, anatomical features associated with donkeys…) No, not going to say. Naaaaaaaah! What kind of a clown do you take me for? (This is a self-referential joke, Will Kemp, company clown, mocking himself for being, for once, lost for words.)

But I know it was important, amazing, profound. (There’s just a little anticipation, here, of Caliban’s dreaming, and his crying to sleep again.) 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. No one could describe my dream; it was beyond human understanding (hence the garbled echoes of 1 Corinthians 2). But to the true artist, everything is material: I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream. It shall be called ‘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. My mate Peter Quince, oh, he’s a lovely writer, not that I’d ever tell him to his face. He’ll be able to find some words for my dream, and fit them to a tune; I’ll retain naming rights, naturally. We’ll add it to the play, a big number right at the end.

Sorted. And Bottom, it seems, is the last to leave the wood, as the dawn breaks.