Clean. And methought he came
As if he had risen thus out of his Den,
As I do from these Hangings.
Lis. Dead.
Cal. Hold, good Sir.
Clean. And forc'd ye in his arms thus.
Cal. 'Twas but fancy
That troubled ye, here's nothing to disturb me,
Good Sir, to rest again, and I am now drowzie,
And will to bed; make no noise, dear Husband,
But let me sleep; before you can call any body, I am abed.
Clean. This, and sweet rest dwell with ye. [Exit.
Cal. Come out again, and as you love, Lisander,
Make haste away, you see his mind is troubled;
Do you know the door ye came in at?
Lis. Well, sweet Lady.
Cal. And can ye hit it readily?
Lis. I warrant ye;
And must I go? Must here end all my happiness?
Here in a dream, as if it had no substance?