[Enter Moonshine.]
STARVELING This lanthorn doth the horned moon present.
DEMETRIUS He should have worn the horns on his head.
THESEUS He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible, within the circumference.
STARVELING This lanthorn doth the horned moon present.
Myself, the man i’th’ moon do seem to be.
THESEUS This is the greatest error of all the rest. The man should be put into the lanthorn; how is it else the man i’th’ moon?
DEMETRIUS He dares not come there for the candle; for you see, it is already in snuff.
HIPPOLYTA I am aweary of this moon. Would he would change.
THESEUS It appears, by his small light of discretion, that he is in the wane; but yet in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time. (5.1.234-249)
It’s Starveling’s big moment, and he’s only got a few lines, entirely straightforward: this lanthorn doth the hornèd moon present. Good poetic touch, that hornèd, a crescent moon! But Demetrius (thinks that he) is on a roll! He should have worn the horns on his head! Horn joke klaxon! daring from a man who’s been married a matter of hours. Theseus joins in, can’t resist it: he is no crescent, and his horns are invisible, within the circumference. The joke here is a bit more complicated: Starveling is—as his name suggests—very thin; tailors are often thin because gallants (like Demetrius and Lysander) don’t pay their bills but, even more, because Starveling has probably been written for a particular actor in the company, a hired man called John Sinklo (Sincler, Sinclair) who seems to have been cadaverously thin; he originated the Beadle in 2 Henry IV, and probably the Apothecary in Romeo and Juliet. Anyway, Shut Up wannabe comedians in the audience, Starveling has something to say. He starts over. This lanthorn doth the hornèd moon present. If you’d just listen, I’ll explain! Myself, the man i’th’ moon do seem to be. This—the lantern—is the moon, I am the man in the moon. Are you with me? Theseus has to go again: this is the greatest error of all the rest. Biggest mistake! Total fail! The man should be put into the lanthorn; how is it else the man i’th’ moon? It doesn’t make SENSE! Oh ha ha. Demetrius joins in (of course): he dares not come there for the candle—too dangerous!—for you see, it is already in snuff; he might extinguish it! (Various possible jokes about effeminacy or impotence, not being up to snuff, a low flame, or else being in snuff, about to lose one’s temper.) Starveling doesn’t have a hope of continuing, Hippolyta has a go now, I am aweary of this moon. Would he would change. (That’s what moons do. It’s a reminder of all the moon invocations—of madness, changeability, the passage of time—in the play already.) Theseus takes over, again: it appears, by his small light of discretion, that he is in the wane. He’s rapidly losing his nerve, he’s on the way out. But yet in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time: we’d better hear what he has to say, and see this through; it’s only polite. Poor Starveling.
