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Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be!
Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye. When his love he doth espy, Let her shine as gloriously As the Venus of the sky. When thou wakest, if she be by, Beg of her for remedy.
O Helena, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?
Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears
When truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray! These vows are Hermia's: will you give her o'er?
O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent To set against me for your merriment
In Hermia's love I yield you up my part; And yours of Helena to me bequeath, Whom I do love and will do till my death.
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?
My heart to her but as guest-wise sojourn'd, And now to Helen is it home return'd
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