"In the wood, a league without the town
To do observance to a morn of May."
Hermia, hearing these words, feels her heart leap with joy. She tries to answer soberly, in the same measure used by her lover; but as her words become impassioned she breaks into rhyme.
My good Lysander!
I swear to thee by Cupid's strongest bow,
By his best arrow with the golden head,
By the simplicity of Venus doves,
By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves,
And by that fire which burn'd the Carthage green,