Lys. How now, my love? Why is your cheek so pale? How chance the roses there do fade so fast?

Her. Belike for want of rain; which I could well Beteem them from the tempest of mine eyes.

Lys. Ah me! for aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth:
But, either it was different in blood,—

Her. Oh, cross! too high to be enthrall'd to low!
Lys. Or else misgraffed, in respect of years,-
Her. Oh, spite! too old to be engaged to young!
Lys. Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,-
Her. Oh, hell! to choose love by another's eye!
Lys. Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it;
Making it momentany as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,
Brief as the lightning in the collied night,

That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth; And ere a man hath power to say, Behold!

The jaws of Darkness do devour it up;

So quick bright things come to confusion.

Her. If then true lovers have been ever cross'd, It stands as an edict in destiny.

Then let us teach our trial patience,

Because it is a customary cross;

As due to love, as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs,

Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.

Lys. A good persuasion; therefore, hear me,Hermia. I have a widow aunt, a dowager

Of great revenue, and she hath no child,

And she respects me as her only son.

From Athens is her house remote seven leagues;
There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee,
And to that place the sharp Athenian law
Cannot pursue us. If thou lov'st me then,
Steal forth thy father's house to-morrow night;
And in the wood, a league without the town,
Where I did meet thee once with Helena,

To do observance to a morn of May,
There will I stay for thee.

Her.
My good Lysander!
I swear to thee, by Cupid's strongest bow;
By his best arrow with the golden head;
By the simplicity of Venus' doves;

By that which knitteth souls, and prospers loves;
And by that fire which burn'd the Carthage queen,
When the false Trojan under sail was seen;
By all the vows that ever men have broke,
In number more than ever woman spoke;
In that same place thou hast appointed me,
To-morrow truly will I meet with thee.

Lys. Keep promise, love. Look, here comes
Helena.

Enter HELENA.

Her. God speed fair Helena! Whither away ? Hel. Call you me fair? that fair again unsay. Demetrius loves your fair: O happy fair!

Your eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue's sweet air
More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear,
When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.
Sickness is catching; Oh, were favour so!
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.
Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated,
The rest I'd give to be to you translated.

Oh! 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.
Hel. Oh, that your frowns would teach my smiles
such skill!

Her. I give him curses, yet he gives me love.
Hel. Oh, that my prayers could such affection move!
Her. The more I hate, the more he follows me.
Hel. The more I love, the more he hateth me.
Her. His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.

Hel. None, but your beauty. 'Would that fault

were mine!

Her. Take comfort; he no more shall see my face; Lysander and myself will fly this place.Before the time I did Lysander see,

Seem'd Athens as a paradise to me:

Oh then, what graces in my love do dwell,
That he hath turn'd a heaven into hell!

Lys. Helen, to you our minds we will unfold.
To-morrow night when Phoebe doth behold
Her silver visage in the wat'ry glass,

Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass

-A time that lovers' flights doth still concealThrough Athens' gates have we devis'd to steal.

Her. And in the wood, where often you and I Upon faint primrose-beds were wont to lie, Emptying our bosoms of their counsels sweet,5 There my Lysander and myself shall meet; And thence, from Athens, turn away our eyes, To seek new friends and stranger companies." Farewell, sweet playfellow; pray thou for us, And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius ! Keep word, Lysander, we must starve our sight From lovers' food, till morrow deep midnight. [Exit HERM. Lys. I will, my Hermia.-Helena, adieu. As you on him, Demetrius dote on you!

[Exit LYSANDER.
Hel. How happy some, o'er other some can be!
Through Athens I am thought as fair as she.
But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so;
He will not know what all but he do know.
And as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes,
So I, admiring of his qualities.

Things base and vile, holding no quantity,
Love can transpose to form and dignity.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;
And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind.
Nor hath Love's mind of any judgement taste;

Wings, and no eyes, figure unheedy haste:
And therefore is Love said to be a child,
Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd.
As waggish boys in game themselves forswear,
So the boy Love is perjur'd every where:
For ere Demetrius fook'd on Hermia's eyne,
He hail'd down oaths, that he was only mine;
And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt,
So he dissolv'd and showers of oaths did melt.
I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight;
Then to the wood will he, to-morrow night,
Pursue her; and for this intelligence
If I have thanks, it is a dear expense.
But herein mean I to enrich my pain,
To have his sight thither and back again.

[Exit.

SCENE II. The same. A Room in a Cottage.

Enter SNUG, BOTTOM, FLUTE, SNOUT, QUINCE, and STARVELING.

Quince.

IS all our company here?

Bot. You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip.

Quin. Here is the scroll of every man's name, which is thought fit, through all Athens, to play in our interlude before the Duke and Duchess, on his weddingday at night.

Bot. First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on; then read the names of the actors; and so grow to a point.

Quin. Marry, our play is, The most lamentable comedy, and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby.

Bot. A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll. Masters, spread yourselves. Quin. Answer, as I call you. Nick Bottom, the

weaver.

Bot. Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed. Quin. You, Nick Bottom,are set down for Pyramus. Bot. What is Pyramus? a lover, or a tyrant? Quin. A lover, that kills himself most gallant for love.

Bot. That will ask some tears in the true performing of it. If I do it, let the audience look to their eyes; I will move storms, I will condole in some measure. To the rest. Yet my chief humour is for a tyrant; I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split.

"The raging rocks,

And shivering shocks,
Shall break the locks
Of prison gates:
And Phibbus' car
Shall shine from far,

And make and mar

The foolish Fates."

This was lofty!-Now name the rest of the players. -This is Ercles' vein, a tyrant's vein; a lover is more condoling.

Quin. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender.

Flu. Here, Peter Quince.

Quin. You must take Thisby on you.

Flu. What is Thisby a wandering knight?
Quin. It is the lady that Pyramus must love.

Flu. Nay, faith, let not me play a woman; I have a beard coming.

Quin. That's all one; you shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will.

Bot. An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby too. I'll speak in a monstrous little voice;-Thisne, Thisne-Ah, Pyramus, my lover dear; thy Thisby dear! and lady dear!

Quin. No, no; you must play Pyramus; and, Flute, you Thisby.

Bot. Well, proceed.

Quin. Robin Starveling, the tailor.