I frown upon him; yet he loves me still.
Hel.
O that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill!
Her.
I give him curses; yet he gives me love.
Hel.
O 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;
O then, what graces in my love do dwell,
That he hath turn’d a heaven unto a 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 conceal),
Through 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 counsel [sweet],
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.
Lys.
I will, my Hermia.
Exit 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 judgment 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 look’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 show’rs 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]
Enter Quince the carpenter and Snug the joiner and Bottom the weaver and Flute the bellows-mender and Snout the tinker and Starveling the tailor.
Quin. 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 enterlude before the Duke and the Duchess, on his wedding-day 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 humor 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. Flute, you must take Thisby on you.
Flu. What is Thisby? a wand’ring knight?
Quin.