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Pretty soul! she durst not lie
Nearer this lack-love, this kill-courtesy.
Chur), upon thy eyes I throw
All the power this charm doth owe.
(Squeezes the flower on LYSANDER's eyelids.
When thou wak'st, let love forbid
Sleep his seat on thy eyelid :
So awake when I am gone ;
For I must now to Oberon. [Exit.

Enter DEMETRIUS and HELENA, running Hel. Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius. Dem. I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me

thus. Hel. 0, wilt thou darkling leave me I do not so. Dem. Stay, on thy peril: I alone will go. [Exit.

Hel. O, I am out of breath in this fond chase !
The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace.
Happy is Hermia, wheresoo'er she lies ;
For she hath blessed and attractive eyes.
How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt

tears :
If so, my eyes are oftener washed than hers.
No, no, I am as ugly as a bear;
For beasts, that meet me, run away for fear :
Therefore no marvel though Demetrius

Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus.
What wicked and dissembling glass of mine
Made me compare with Hermia's sphery eyne ?
But who is here Lysander ! on the ground!
Dead ? or asleep --I see no blood, no wound.-
Lysander! If you live, good sir, awake.
Lys. [Awaking ] And run through fire I will, for

thy sweet sake.
Transparent Helen! Nature here shows art,
That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart.
Where is Demetrius ? O, how fit a word
Is that vile name to perish on my sword I

Hel. Do not say so, Lysander; say not so. What though he love your Hermia? Lord, what

though? Yet Hermia still loves you : then be content.

Lys. Content with Hermia ! No; I do repent The tedious minutes I with her have spent. Not Hermia, but Helena I love. Who will not change a raven for a dove? The will of man is by his reason swayed, And reason says you are the worthier maid. Things growing are not ripe until their season, So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason , And touching now the point of human skill, Reason becomes the marshal to my will,

And leads me to your eyes; where I o'erlook
Love's stories written in love's richest book.
Hel. Wherefore was I to this keen mockery

born ?
When at your hands did I deserve this scorn?
Is't not enough, is 't not enough, young man,
That I did never, no, nor never can,
Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye,
But you must flout my insufficiency?
Good troth, you do me wrong,-good sooth, you

do, In such disdainful manner me to woo. But fare you well : perforce I must confess I thought you lord of more true gentleness. O, that a lady of one man refused Should of another therefore be abused ! [Exit. Lys. She sees not Hermia.--Hermia, sleep thou

there : And never may’st thou come Lysander near! For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings ; Or, as the heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive; So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me. And, all my powers, address your love and might

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To honour Helen, and to be her knight. [Exit. Her. [Awaking.] Help me, Lysander, help me!

do thy best, To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast ! Ay me, for pity !—what a dream was here ! Lysander, look how I do quake with fear. Methought a serpent ate my heart away, And you sat smiling at his cruel prey.-Lysander ! what, removed ! Lysander ! lord What, out of hearing? gone ? no sound, no word ? Alack ! where are you ? speak, an if you hear ; Speak, of all loves ! I swoon almost with fear. No Athen I well perceive you are not nigh : Either death, or you, I'll find immediately.



SCENE I.—The Wood. TITANIA lying asleep Enter QUINCE, SNUG, BOTTOM, FLUTE, SNOUT, and


Bot. Are we all met?

Quin. Pat, pat; and here's a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal. This green plot

shall be our stage, this hawthorn-brake our tiring. house; and we will do it in action, as we will do it before the duke.

Bot. Peter Quince,-
Quin. What say'st thou, bully Bottom

Bot. There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisbe,' that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself, which the ladies cannot abide.

How answer you that?

Snout. By'r lakin, a parlous fear.

Star. I believe, we must leave the killing out, when all is done.

Bot. Not a whit: I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue; and let the prologue seem to say, we will do no harm with our swords, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed ; and, for the more better assurance, tell them that I, Pyramus, am not Pyramus, but Bottom the

This will put them out of fear. Quin. Well, we will have such a prologue, and it shall be written in eight and six,

Bot. No, make it two more : let it be written in eight and eight.

Snout. Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion ? Star. I fear it, I promise you.


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