_Her._ Dark night, that from the eye his function takes, The ear more quick of apprehension makes; Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense, It pays the hearing double recompense. 180 Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found; Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound. But why unkindly didst thou leave me so? _Lys._ Why should he stay, whom love doth press to go? _Her._ What love could press Lysander from my side? 185 _Lys._ Lysander’s love, that would not let him bide, Fair Helena, who more engilds the night Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light. Why seek’st thou me? could not this make thee know, The hate I bear thee made me leave thee so? 190 _Her._ You speak not as you think: it cannot be. _Hel._ Lo, she is one of this confederacy! Now I perceive they have conjoin’d all three To fashion this false sport, in spite of me. Injurious Hermia! most ungrateful maid! 195 Have you conspired, have you with these contrived To bait me with this foul derision? Is all the counsel that we two have shared, The sisters’ vows, the hours that we have spent, When we have chid the hasty-footed time 200 For parting us,—O, is all forgot? All school-days’ friendship, childhood innocence? We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, Have with our needles created both one flower, Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, 205 Both warbling of one song, both in one key; As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds, Had been incorporate. So we grew together, Like to a double cherry, seeming parted; But yet an union in partition, 210 Two lovely berries moulded on one stem; So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart; Two of the first, like coats in heraldry, Due but to one, and crowned with one crest. And will you rent our ancient love asunder, 215 To join with men in scorning your poor friend? It is not friendly, ’tis not maidenly: Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it, Though I alone do feel the injury. _Her._ I am amazed at your passionate words. 220 I scorn you not: it seems that you scorn me. _Hel._ Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn, To follow me and praise my eyes and face? And made your other love, Demetrius, Who even but now did spurn me with his foot, 225 To call me goddess, nymph, divine and rare, Precious, celestial? Wherefore speaks he this To her he hates? and wherefore doth Lysander Deny your love, so rich within his soul, And tender me, forsooth, affection, 230 But by your setting on, by your consent? What though I be not so in grace as you, So hung upon with love, so fortunate, But miserable most, to love unloved? This you should pity rather than despise. 235 _Her._ I understand not what you mean by this.