HERMIA. Out, dog! Out, cur! Thou driv’st me past the bounds Of maiden’s patience. Hast thou slain him, then? Henceforth be never number’d 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. DEMETRIUS. 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. HERMIA. I pray thee, tell me then that he is well. DEMETRIUS. And if I could, what should I get therefore? HERMIA. 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._] DEMETRIUS. 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 bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe; Which now in some slight measure it will pay, If for his tender here I make some stay. [_Lies down._] OBERON. 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’er-rules, that, one man holding troth, A million fail, confounding oath on oath. OBERON. 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. [_Exit._] OBERON. Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid’s archery, Sink in apple of his eye. When his love he doth espy, Let her shine as gloriously As the Venus of the sky.— When thou wak’st, if she be by, Beg of her for remedy. Enter Puck. PUCK. Captain of our fairy band, Helena is here at hand, And the youth mistook by me, Pleading for a lover’s fee. Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be! OBERON. Stand aside. The noise they make Will cause Demetrius to awake. PUCK. Then will two at once woo one. That must needs be sport alone; And those things do best please me That befall prepost’rously. Enter Lysander and Helena. LYSANDER. Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears. Look when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?