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Puck. This is the woman; but not this the man.
Dem. O, why rebuke you him that loves


Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.
Her. Now I but chide ; but I should use thee

For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse.
If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep,
Being o'er shoes in blood, plunge in knee deep,
And kill me too.
The sun was not so true unto the day
As he to me.

Would he have stolen away
From sleeping Hermia ? I'll believe as soon
This whole earth may be bored, and that the moon
May through the centre creep, and so displease
Her brother's noontide with the Antipodes.
It cannot be but thou hast murdered him ;
So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim.
Dem. So should the murdered look, and so

should I,
Pierced through the heart with your stern cruelty
Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear,
As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere.

Her. What's this to my Lysander ? where is he?
Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me?
Dem. I had rather give his carcass to my


Her. Out, dog! out, cur! thou drivist me past

the bounds Of maiden's patience. Hast thou slain him then ? Henceforth be never numbered among men ! O, once 'tell true, tell true, e'en for my sake! Durst thou have looked upon him, being awake, And hast thou killed him sleeping? O brave

touch! Could not a worm, an adder, do so much ? An adder did it; for with doubler tongue Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung Dem. You spend your passion on a misprised

mood : I am not guilty of Lysander's blood; Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell.

Her. I pray thee, tell me then, that he is well. Dem. An if I could, what should I get there

Her. A privilege never to see me more.—
And from thy hated presence part I so ;
See me no more, whether be be dead or no. [Exit.
Dem. There is no following her in this fierce

Here, therefore, for a while I will remain.
So sorrow's heaviness doth heavier grow
For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe;

Which now in some slight measure it will pay,
If for his tender here I make some stay.

[Lies down Obe. What hast thou done ? thou hast mistaken

quite, And laid the love-juice on some true-love's sight: Of thy misprision must perforce ensue Some true-love turned, and not a false turned true. Puck. Then fate o'errules, that, one man holding

troth, A million fail, confounding oath on oath.

Obe. About the wood go swifter than the wind, And Helena of Athens look thou find : All fancy-sick she is, and pale of cheer With sighs of love, that cost the fresh blood dear. By some illusion see thou bring her here: I'll charm his eyes against she do appear.

Puck. I go, I go look how I go,Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow. (Exit. Obe. Flower of this purple die, Hit with Cupid's archery,

(Squeezes the flower on Demetrius's

Sink in apple of his eye!
When his love he doth espy,
Let her shine as gloriously

As the Venus of the sky.-
When thou wak'st, if she be by,
Beg of her for remedy.

Re-enter Puck

luck. Captain of our fairy band,

Helena is here at hand;
And the youth, mistook by me,
Pleading for a lover's fee.
Shall we their fond pageant see lom

Lord what fools these mortals be!
Obe. Stand aside : the noise they make

Will cause Demetrius to awake.
Puck. Then will two at once woo one, -

That must needs be sport alone;
And those things do best please me
That befall preposterously.


Lys. Why should you think that I should woo

in scorn ?
Scorn and derision never come in tears :
Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born,

In their nativity all truth appears.
How can these things in me seem scorn to you,
Bearing the badge of faith to prove them true ?

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Hel. You do advance your cunning more and


When truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray! These vows are Hermia’s : will you give her o'er ? Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing

weigh : Your vows, to her and me, put in two scales, Will even weigh, and both as light as tales.

Lys. I had no judgment, when to her I swore. Hel. Nor none, in my mind, now you give her

o'er. Lys. Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you. Dem. [Awaking.] 0 Helen, goddess, nymph,

perfect, divine ! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow ! That pure congealéd white, high Taurus' snow, Fanned with the eastern wind, turns to a crow, When thou hold'st up thy hand. 0, let me kiss This pureness of pure white, this seal of bliss !

Hel. O spite! O hell! I see, you all are bent To set against me, for your merriment: If you were civil and knew courtesy You would not do me thus much injury. Can you not hate me, as I know you do,

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