Flute as Thisbe: [dies] (5.1.329-340) #MoonMad #SlowShakespeare

FLUTE O sisters three, Come, come to me, With hands as pale as milk; Lay them in gore, Since you have shore With shears his thread of silk. Tongue, not a word. Come, trusty sword, Come, blade, my breast imbrue. [Stabs herself.] And farewell, friends; Thus Thisbe ends. Adieu, adieu, adieu. [Dies.] (5.1.329-340) And suddenly Thisbe’s speech comes into focus […]