Enter QUINCE, FLUTE, SNOUT and STARVELING.

QUINCE          Have you sent to Bottom’s house? Is he come home yet?

STARVELING  He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt he is transported.

FLUTE If he come not, then the play is marred. It goes not forward. Doth it?

QUINCE          It is not possible. You have not a man in all Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he.

FLUTE No, he hath simply the best wit of any handicraftman in Athens.

QUINCE          Yea, and the best person too, and he is a very paramour for a sweet voice.

FLUTE You must say paragon. A paramour is (God bless us) a thing of naught. (4.2.1-14)

It’s properly morning in Athens, at least, maybe even afternoon, and here are four anxious, despondent would-be thespians, especially Quince, whose enterprise this is: have you sent to Bottom’s house? Is he come home yet? Has anyone gone over and checked? Of course we have, implies Starveling, he cannot be heard of. There’s just no news at all, no one has any idea where he is! out of doubt he is transported: he has been carried off by fairies! Starveling is credulous, this is clearly absurd—it is also near enough the truth. Flute’s concerns are slightly different: if he come not, then the play is marred. It goes not forward. Doth it? One of the more reluctant actors in the troupe, he’s now a true convert to the stage, lamenting the possibility that they may have to call the whole thing off. No show from Bottom means no show at all. It is not possible, confirms Quince. You have not a man in all Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he. No one else could do it, no one. Bottom IS Pyramus. Pyramus IS Bottom. We’re screwed, lads. Flute continues his lament: no, he hath simply the best wit of any handicraftman in Athens. Bottom’s the best of us, the brightest and the best. Yea, and the best person too, and he is a very paramour for a sweet voice, adds Quince. No shade, lads, but he’s the best looking of the lot of us, by a long way. AND he can sing! Flute, so reluctant in his first forays in the dramatic arts, is now an arbiter of taste and discretion, more correct even than Quince himself (who is overcome with the waste and futility of it all and is letting things slide): you must say paragon. A paramour is (God bless us) a thing of naught. I think you mean paragon, in the sense of most excellent, Mr Quince, sir, because a paramour is a woman who’s no better than she should be…