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I frown upon him, yet he loves me still. I give him curses, yet he gives me love.
How now, my love! why is your cheek so pale? How chance the roses there do fade so fast?
Relent, sweet Hermia: and, Lysander, yield Thy crazèd title to my certain right.
The more I love, the more he hateth me.
What say you, Hermia? be advised fair maid: To you your father should be as a god; Demetrius is a worthy gentleman.
Four days will quickly steep themselves in night; Four nights will quickly dream away the time; And then the moon, like to a silver bow New-bent in heaven, shall behold the night Of our solemnities.
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