Puck.
This is the woman, but not this the man.
Demetrius.
O, why rebuke you him that loves you so?
Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.
Hermia
Now I but chide; but I should use thee worse,
For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse.
If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep,
Being o’er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep,
And kill me too.
The sun was not so true unto the day
As he to me: would he have stolen away
From sleeping Hermia? I’ll believe as soon
This whole earth may be bored and that the moon
May through the centre creep and so displease
Her brother’s noontide with the Antipodes.
It cannot be but thou hast murder’d him;
So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim.
Demetrius.
So should the murder’d look, and so should I,
Pierced through the heart with your stern cruelty:
Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear,
As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere.
