Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell: Fetch me that flower: the herb I shewed thee once: Puck. I'll put a girdle round about the earth In forty minutes. [Exit Puck. Obe. Enter DEMETRIUS, HELENA following him. Dem. Do I entice you; do I speak you fair? Or rather, do I not in plainest truth Tell you I do not, nor I cannot love you? Hel. And even for that do I love you the more. I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius, The more you beat me, I will fawn on you. Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me, Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave, Unworthy as I am, to follow you. What worser place can I beg in your love (And yet a place of high respect with me), Than to be used as you use your dog? Dem. Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit; For I am sick when I do look on thee. Hel. And I am sick when I look not on you. Dem. You do impeach your modesty too much, To leave the city, and commit yourself Into the hands of one that loves you not: To trust the opportunity of night, And the ill counsel of a desert place, Hel. Your virtue is my privilege for that. And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts. Dem. I will not stay thy questions; let me go; Or if thou follow me, do not believe But I shall do thee mischief in the wood. Hel. Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field, You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius ! Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex: We cannot fight for love, as men may do; We should be wooed, and were not made to Woo. I'll follow thee, and make a heaven of hell, [Exeunt DEMETRIUS and HELENA. Obe. Fare thee well, nymph: ere he do leave this grove, Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love. Re-enter PUCK. Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer. Puck. Ay, there it is. Obe. I pray thee, give it me. I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows; Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine: There sleeps Titania, some time of the night, Lulled in these flowers with dances and delight; And there the snake throws her enamelled skin, Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in And with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes, And make her full of hateful fantasies. With a disdainful youth: anoint his eyes; Enter LYSANDER and HERMIA. Lys. Fair love, you faint with wandering in the wood; And, to speak troth, I have forgot our way: We'll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good, And tarry for the comfort of the day. Her. Be it so, Lysander; find you out a bed, For I upon this bank will rest my head. Lys. One turf shall serve as pillow for us both; One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth. Her. Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear, Lie further off yet; do not lie so near. Lys. O, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence; Love takes the meaning, in love's conference. I mean, that my heart unto yours is knit; So that but one heart we can make of it: Two bosoms interchainéd with an oath; So then, two bosoms and a single troth. Her. Lysander riddles very prettily. [They sleep. On whose eyes I might approve And here the maiden, sleeping sound, All the power this charm doth owe: [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. O, wilt thou darkling leave me? do not so. Dem. Stay, on thy peril; I alone will go. [Exit DEMETRIUS. Hel. O, I am out of breath in this fond chase! The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace. Happy is Hermia wheresoe'er she lies; For she hath blesséd and attractive eyes. How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears: For beasts that meet me, 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 now 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? 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, thou there; And never mayst thou come Lysander near! 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 To honour Helen, and to be her knight! [Exit. |