Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be!
Stand aside. The noise they make Will cause Demetrius awake
I had no judgment when to her I swore
Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you
Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o'er
(awaking) O Holen, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine!
And will you rent our ancient love asunder, to join with men in scorning your poor friend? It is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly, our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it, Though I alone do feel the injury.
I am amazed at your passionate words. I scorn you not; it seems that you scorn me.