DEMETRIUS.
I had rather give his carcass to my hounds.
HERMIA.
Out, dog! Out, cur! Thou driv’st me past the bounds
Of maiden’s patience. Hast thou slain him, then?
Henceforth be never number’d among men!
O once tell true; tell true, even for my sake!
Durst thou have look’d upon him, being awake,
And hast thou kill’d 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.
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.