Tita. Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful. Bot. Not so, neither; but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn. Tita. Out of this wood do not desire to go: Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no. I am a spirit of no common rate; The Summer still doth tend upon my state; I'll give thee fairies to attend on thee; And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep, And sing while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep: And I will purge thy mortal grossness so, That thou shalt like an airy spirit go. Peas-blossom! Cobweb! Mote! and Mustard-seed! Tita. Be kind and courteous to this gentleman: And pluck the wings from painted butterflies, Cob. Hail! Bot. I cry your worship's mercy, heartily. I beseech, your worship's name. Bot. I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Cobweb. If I cut my finger, I shall make bold with you. -Your name, honest gentleman? Peas. Peas-blossom. Bot. I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. Good Master Peas-blossom, I shall desire you of more acquaintance too. Your name, I beseech you, sir? Mus. Mustard-seed. Bot. Good Master Mustard-seed, I know your patience well that same cowardly, giant-like ox-beef hath devoured many a gentleman of your house. I promise you, your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now. I desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Mustard-seed. 1 Tita. Come, wait upon him: lead him to my bower. The moon, methinks, looks with a watery eye, And when she weeps, weeps every little flower, Lamenting some enforced chastity. Tie up my love's tongue, bring him silently. SCENE II. [Exeunt. Another Part of the Wood. Enter OBERON. Obe. I wonder if Titania be awak'd; Then, what it was that next came in her eye, Enter PUCK. Here comes my messenger. How now, mad spirit? That work for bread upon Athenian stalls, Anon, his Thisbe must be answered, So, at his sight, away his fellows fly, And, at our stamp, here o'er and o'er one falls: He murther cries, and help from Athens calls. Their sense, thus weak, lost with their fears, thus strong, Made senseless things begin to do them wrong; For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch, Some, sleeves, some, hats; - from yielders all things catch. I led them on in this distracted fear, And left sweet Pyramus translated there; Obe. This falls out better than I could devise. But hast thou yet latch'd the Athenian's eyes With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do? Puck. I took him sleeping, (that is finish'd too,) And the Athenian woman by his side, That, when he wak'd, of force she must be ey'd. Enter DEMETRIUS and HERMIA. Obe. Stand close: this is the same Athenian. Puck. This is the woman; but not this the man. Dem. O! why rebuke you him that loves you so? Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe. Her. Now, I but chide; but I should use thee worse, For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse. Being o'er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep, The sun was not so true unto the day, As he to me. Would he have stol'n away From sleeping Hermia? I'll believe as soon, This whole Earth may be bor'd, and that the moon Dem. So should the murther'd look, and so should I, Her. What's this to my Lysander? where is he? Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me? Dem. I'd rather give his carcass to my hounds. Her. Out, dog! out, cur! thou driv'st me past the bounds Of maiden's patience. Hast thou slain him then? O! once tell true; tell true, e'en for my sake; Dem. 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. Her. I pray thee, tell me, then, that he is well. Dem. And, if I could, what should I get therefore? Her. 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. Dem. There is no following her in this fierce vein : Here, therefore, for a while I will remain. So sorrow's heaviness doth heavier grow [Lies down. Obe. 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'errules; that one man hold ing troth, A million fail, confounding oath on oath. Obe. About the wood go swifter than the wind, And Helena of Athens look thou find : All fancy-sick she is, and pale of cheer |