185 When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.
[186] Sickness is catching: O, were favour so,
[187] Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go;
My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye,
My tongue should catch your tongue’s sweet melody.
190 Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated,
[191] The rest I’d give to be to you translated.
O, teach me how you look; and with what art
You sway the motion of Demetrius’ heart!
Her. I frown upon him, yet he loves me still.