But, my good lord, I wot not by what power,—
[162] But by some power it is,—my love to Hermia,
[163] Melted as the snow, seems to me now
As the remembrance of an idle gaud,
165 Which in my childhood I did dote upon;
And all the faith, the virtue of my heart,
The object and the pleasure of mine eye,
Is only Helena. To her, my lord,
[169] Was I betroth’d ere I saw Hermia:
[170] But, like in sickness, did I loathe this food;