Fair love, you faint with wand'ring in the wood. And, to speak troth, i have forgot our way. We'll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good, And tarry for the comfort of the day.
[Be] it so, Lysander. Find you out a bed, For I upon this bank will rest my head.
Pretty soul, she durst not lie Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy.- Churl, upon thy eyes i throw All the power this charm dothe owe. [He anoints Lysander's eyelids with nectar.] When thou wak'st, let love forbid Sleep his seat on thy eyelid.