I, with complaintAgainst my child, my daughter Hermia.Stand forth, Demetrius. My noble lord,This man hath my consent to marry her.Stand forth, Lysander: and my gracious duke,This man hath bewitch'd the bosom of my child.
These couples shall eternally be knit:And, for the morning now is something worn,Our purposed hunting shall be set aside.Away with us to Athens; three and three,We'll hold a feast in great solemnity.
I have a widow aunt, a dowagerOf great revenue, and she hath no child:From Athens is her house remote seven leagues;And she respects me as her only son.There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee.
O hell! to choose love by another's eyes.
In the sightOf thy former lady's eye:And the country proverb known,That every man should take his own,In your waking shall be shown.
Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.
Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have,To wear away this long age of three hoursBetween our after-supper and bed-time?Where is our usual manager of mirth?What revels are in hand? Is there no play,To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?