made your other love, Demetrius
(Who even but now did spurn me with his foot),
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,
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 unlov’d)?
This you should pity rather than despise.
Her.
I understand not what you mean by this.
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.
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,
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 [prays].
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.
Dem.
Quick, come!
Her.
Lysander, whereto tends all this?
Lys.
Away, you Ethiop!
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 bur! Vile thing, let loose;
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 med’cine! O hated potion, hence!
Her.
Do you not jest?
Hel.
Yes, sooth; and so do you.
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.
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 lov’d me; yet since night you left me:
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
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 stol’n my love’s heart from him?
Hel.
