_Hel._ O, I am out of breath in this fond chase! The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace. Happy is Hermia, wheresoe’er she lies; 90 For she hath blessed and attractive eyes. How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears: If so, my eyes are oftener wash’d than hers. No, no, I am as ugly as a bear; For beasts that meet me run away for fear: 95 Therefore no marvel though Demetrius Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus. What wicked and dissembling glass of mine Made me compare with Hermia’s sphery eyne? But who is here? Lysander! on the ground! 100 Dead? or asleep? I see no blood, no wound. Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake. _Lys._ [_Awaking_] And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake. Transparent Helena! Nature shows art, That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart. 105 Where is Demetrius? O, how fit a word Is that vile name to perish on my sword! _Hel._ Do not say so, Lysander; say not so. What though he love your Hermia? Lord, what though? Yet Hermia still loves you: then be content. 110 _Lys._ Content with Hermia! No; I do repent The tedious minutes I with her have spent. Not Hermia but Helena I love: Who will not change a raven for a dove? The will of man is by his reason sway’d; 115 And reason says you are the worthier maid. Things growing are not ripe until their season: So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason; And touching now the point of human skill, Reason becomes the marshal to my will, 120 And leads me to your eyes; where I o’erlook Love’s stories, written in love’s richest book. _Hel._ Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is’t not enough, is’t not enough, young man, 125 That I did never, no, nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius’ eye, But you must flout my insufficiency? Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, you do, In such disdainful manner me to woo. 130 But fare you well: perforce I must confess I thought you lord of more true gentleness. O, that a lady, of one man refused, Should of another therefore be abused! [_Exit._ _Lys._ She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there: 135 And never mayst thou come Lysander near! For as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, Or as the heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive, 140 So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me! And, all my powers, address your love and might To honour Helen and to be her knight! [_Exit._