_Hel._ Ay, do, persever, counterfeit sad looks, Make mouths upon me when I turn my back; Wink each at other; hold the sweet jest up: This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled. 240 If you have any pity, grace, or manners, You would not make me such an argument. But fare ye well: ’tis partly my own fault; Which death or absence soon shall remedy. _Lys._ Stay, gentle Helena; hear my excuse: 245 My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena! _Hel._ O excellent! _Her._ Sweet, do not scorn her so. _Dem._ If she cannot entreat, I can compel. _Lys._ Thou canst compel no more than she entreat: Thy threats have no more strength than her weak prayers. 250 Helen, I love thee; by my life, I do: I swear by that which I will lose for thee, To prove him false that says I love thee not. _Dem._ I say I love thee more than he can do. _Lys._ If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too. 255 _Dem._ Quick, come! _Her._ Lysander, whereto tends all this? _Lys._ Away, you Ethiope! _Dem._ No, no; he’ll ... Seem to break loose; take on as you would follow, But yet come not: you are a tame man, go! _Lys._ Hang off, thou cat, thou burr! vile thing, let loose, 260 Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent! _Her._ Why are you grown so rude? what change is this? Sweet love,— _Lys._ Thy love! out, tawny Tartar, out! Out, loathed medicine! hated potion, hence! _Her._ Do you not jest? _Hel._ Yes, sooth; and so do you. 265 _Lys._ Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee. _Dem._ I would I had your bond, for I perceive A weak bond holds you: I’ll not trust your word. _Lys._ What, should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead? Although I hate her, I’ll not harm her so. 270 _Her._ What, can you do me greater harm than hate? Hate me! wherefore? O me! what news, my love! Am not I Hermia? are not you Lysander? I am as fair now as I was erewhile. Since night you loved me; yet since night you left me: 275 Why, then you left me,—O, the gods forbid!— In earnest, shall I say? _Lys._ Ay, by my life; And never did desire to see thee more. Therefore be out of hope, of question, of doubt; Be certain, nothing truer; ’tis no jest 280 That I do hate thee, and love Helena. _Her._ O me! you juggler! you canker-blossom! You thief of love! what, have you come by night And stolen my love’s heart from him? _Hel._ Fine, i’faith! Have you no modesty, no maiden shame, 285 No touch of bashfulness? What, will you tear Impatient answers from my gentle tongue? Fie, fie! you counterfeit, you puppet, you!