The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing. 
Our sport shall be to take what they mistake: 
And what poor duty cannot do, noble respect 
takes it in might, not merit. 
Where I have come, great clerks have purposed 
to greet me with premeditated welcomes; 
where I have seen them shiver and look pale, 
make periods in the midst of sentences, 
throttle their practised accent in their fears 
and in conclusion dumbly have broke off, 
not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet, 
out of this silence yet I pick'd a welcome; 
and in the modesty of fearful duty 
I read as much as from the rattling tongue 
of saucy and audacious eloquence. 
Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity 
in least speak most, to my capacity.

No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no 
excuse. Never excuse; for when the players are all 
dead, there needs none to be blamed. Marry, if he 
that writ it had played Pyramus and hanged himself 
in Thisbe's garter, it would have been a fine 
tragedy: and so it is, truly; and very notably 
discharged. But come, your Bergomask: let your 
epilogue alone. 
The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve: 
lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time. 
I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn 
as much as we this night have overwatch'd. 
This palpable-gross play hath well beguiled 
the heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed. 
A fortnight hold we this solemnity, 
in nightly revels and new jollity