DEMETRIUS.
You spend your passion on a mispris’d mood:
I am not guilty of Lysander’s blood;
Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell.
HERMIA.
I pray thee, tell me then that he is well.
DEMETRIUS.
And if I could, what should I get therefore?
HERMIA.
A privilege never to see me more.
And from thy hated presence part I so:
See me no more, whether he be dead or no.
[Exit.]
DEMETRIUS.
There is no following her in this fierce vein.
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.]
OBERON.
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 turn’d, and not a false turn’d true.
PUCK.
Then fate o’er-rules, that, one man holding troth,
A million fail, confounding oath on oath.
OBERON.
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 costs the fresh blood dear.
By some illusion see thou bring her here;
I’ll charm his eyes against she do appear.