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Pyramus presented, in their sport,

      Forsook his scene, and ent’red in a brake;

      When I did him at this advantage take,

      An ass’s nole I fixed on his head.

      Anon his Thisby must be answered,

      And forth my mimic comes. When they him spy,

      As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye,

      Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort

      (Rising and cawing at the gun’s report),

      Sever themselves and madly sweep the sky,

      So, at his sight, away his fellows fly;

      And at our stamp, here o’er and o’er one falls;

      He murther cries, and help from Athens calls.

      Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears thus strong,

      Made senseless things begin to do them wrong,

      For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch;

      Some sleeves, some hats, from yielders all things catch.

      I led them on in this distracted fear,

      And left sweet Pyramus translated there;

      When in that moment (so it came to pass)

      Titania wak’d, and straightway lov’d an ass.

       Obe.

      This falls out better than I could devise.

      But hast thou yet latch’d the Athenian’s eyes

      With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do?

       Puck.

      I took him sleeping (that is finish’d too)

      And the Athenian woman by his side;

      That when he wak’d, of force she must be ey’d.

       Enter Demetrius and Hermia.

       Obe.

      Stand close; this is the same Athenian.

       Puck.

      This is the woman; but not this the man.

       Dem.

      O, why rebuke you him that loves you so?

      Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.

       Her.

      Now I but chide; but I should use thee worse,

      For thou (I fear) hast given me cause to curse.

      If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep,

      Being o’er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep,

      And kill me too.

      The sun was not so true unto the day

      As he to me. Would he have stolen away

      From sleeping Hermia? I’ll believe as soon

      This whole earth may be bor’d, and that the moon

      May through the centre creep, and so displease

      Her brother’s noontide with th’ Antipodes.

      It cannot be but thou hast murd’red him;

      So should a murtherer look—so dead, so grim.

       Dem.

      So should the murthered look, and so should I,

      Pierc’d through the heart with your stern cruelty.

      Yet you, the murtherer, look as bright, as clear,

      As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere.

       Her.

      What’s this to my Lysander? Where is he?

      Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me?

       Dem.

      I had rather give his carcass to my hounds.

       Her.

      Out, dog, out, cur! thou driv’st me past the bounds

      Of maiden’s patience. Hast thou slain him then?

      Henceforth be never numb’red 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.

       Dem.

      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.

       Her.

      I pray thee, tell me then that he is well.

       Dem.

      And if I could, what should I get therefore?

       Her.

      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.

       Dem.

      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 bankrout [sleep] doth sorrow owe;

      Which now in some slight measure it will pay,

      If for his tender here I make some stay.

       Lie down [and sleep].

       Obe.

      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’errules, that one man holding troth,

      A million fail, confounding oath on oath.

       Obe.

      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.

       Puck.

      I go, I go, look how I go,

      Swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow.

      

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