Oh, I am out of breath in this fond chase. The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace. Happy is Hermia, wheresoe'er she lies, For she hath blessèd and attractive eyes. How came her eyes so bright?
But who is here? Lysander, on the ground? Dead or asleep? I see no blood, no wound.—Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake.
And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake. Transparent Helena! Nature shows art That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart. Where is Demetrius? Oh, how fit a word Is that vile name to perish on my sword!
Do not say so, Lysander. Say not so. What though he love your Hermia? Lord, what though? Yet Hermia still loves you. Then be content.
Content with Hermia? No. I do repent The tedious minutes I with her have spent. Not Hermia but Helena I love. Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Oh, that a lady of one man refused Should of another therefore be abused!