Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour Draws on apace. Four happy days bring in Another moon. But oh, methinks how slow This old moon wanes! She lingers my desires, Like to a stepdame or a dowager Long withering out a young man’s revenue.
Four days will quickly steep themselves in night. Four nights will quickly dream away the time. And then the moon, like to a silver bow New bent in heaven, shall behold the night Of our solemnities.
Go, Philostrate, Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments. Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth. Turn melancholy forth to funerals. The pale companion is not for our pomp.
Hippolyta, I wooed thee with my sword And won thy love doing thee injuries. But I will wed thee in another key, With pomp, with triumph, and with reveling.
Happy be Theseus, our renownèd duke.
Thanks, good Egeus. What’s the news with thee?
Full of vexation come I with complaint Against 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 bewitched the bosom of my child.— Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes,
And interchanged love tokens with my child. Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung With feigning voice verses of feigning love, And stol'n the impression of her fantasy With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gauds, conceits,