DEMETRIUS No die but an ace for him; for he is but one.
LYSANDER Less than an ace, man; for he is dead, he is nothing.
THESEUS With the help of a surgeon, he might yet recover, and yet prove an ass.
HIPPOLYTA How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover?
THESEUS She will find him by starlight. Here she comes, and her passion ends the play.
Enter Thisbe.
HIPPOLYTA Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus. I hope she will be brief.
DEMETRIUS A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisbe is the better: he for a man, God warrant us; she for a woman, God bless us.
LYSANDER She hath spied him already, with those sweet eyes.
DEMETRIUS And thus she means, videlicet. (5.1.300-316)
No die but an ace for him; for he is but one: Demetrius puns in a laboured way on die as the singular of dice—Bottom has just offered five dies/dice in a row—suggesting that he’s the lowest scoring throw, one out of a possible six. Lysander has to cap that: less than an ace, man; for he is dead, he’s nothing. He’s thrown a blank, not even a one! Then Theseus joins in (Hermia and Helena have said nothing…): with the help of a surgeon, he might yet recover, and yet prove an ass. Theseus picks up on ace to observe, meanly, that even if by some miracle Pyramus’s life were to be saved, he’d still be a total idiot—with the main point, of course, the little metatheatrical quibble on ace and ass. (Has Theseus-Oberon been looking at Bottom with particular puzzlement, haven’t I seen you somewhere before?) Hippolyta brings them back on track (perhaps she—Titania—sees her husband’s distraction?): How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover? What’s going on, how will she be able to see anything? And I’ve always loved Theseus’s off-hand remark: she will find him by starlight. (Thomas Nashe had described Philip Sidney’s sonnet sequence Astrophil and Stella—Star-lover and Star—first printed in 1591 as the ‘the tragicommody of loue … performed by starlight’.) Here she comes—enter Thisbe—and her passion ends the play, her lamentation, but also her own suffering and death. Cheerful stuff. Hippolyta does seem to have had enough: Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus. I’m not sure that he’s worthy of a lengthy lamentation? I hope she will be brief. Keep it short, sister! (It’s time for bed, can sometimes be the implication.) But the boys won’t shut up, they’re intoxicated with their own witticism, and all too easily falling back into their former rivalry: a mote will turn the balance—it’s a hair’s breadth between them, a speck of dust could make all the difference, which Pyramus, which Thisbe is the better, which is the superior actor, the most moving and convincing. He for a man, God warrant us—may heaven protect us if that’s the best we can do! she for a woman, God bless us—so, given that Thisbe is not really a woman, the bar for convincing performance is very, very low. Lysander joins in mocking Flute, the meanie: she hath spied him already, with those sweet eyes: Flute-as-Thisbe is wide-eyed with shock, waiting to speak. And thus she means, videlicet: well, we’ll now hear her lament. If you two lads would only shut up, then yes, you will!
