Lys.
Why should you think, that I should woo in scorn;
  Scorn and derision never come in tears.
Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born,
  In their nativity all truth appears:
How can these things in me seem scorn to you,
Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?

Hel.
You do advance your cunning more and more;
  When truth kills truth, O devilish, holy, fray!

These vows are Hermia's: will you give her o'er?
  Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh:
Your vows to her and me, put in two scales,
Will even weigh, and both as light as tales.

Lys.
I had no judgment when to her I swore.

Hel.
Nor none in my mind, now you give her o'er.

Lys.
Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you.

Dem. [awaking.]
O Helen, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine,
To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?
Crystal is muddy; O how ripe in show
Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!
That pure congealed white, high Taurus' snow,^{9 note}
Fann'd with the eastern wind, turns to a crow
When thou hold'st up thy hand. O let me kiss
This Princess of pure white, this seal of bliss.^{1 note}

Hel.
O spight, O hell! I see you all are bent
To set against me, for your merriment:
If you were civil, and knew courtesy,
You would not do me thus much injury.
Can you not hate me, as I know you do,
But you must join in souls^{2 note} to mock me too?
If you are men, as men you are in show,
You would not use a gentle lady so:
To vow and swear, and super-praise my parts;
When, I am sure, you hate me with your hearts.
You both are rivals, and love Hermia,
And now both rivals to mock Helena.
A trim exploit, a manly enterprize,
To conjure tears up in a poor maid's eyes
With your derision! none of nobler sort
Would so offend a virgin, and extort^{3 note}
A poor soul's patience, all to make you sport.

Lys.
You are unkind, Demetrius; be not so;
For you love Hermia; this, you know, I know.
And here with all good will, with all my heart,
In Hermia's love I yield you up my part;
And yours of Helena to me bequeath,
Whom I do love, and will do to my death.

Hel.
Never did mockers waste more idle breath.

Dem.
Lysander, keep thy Hermia, I will none;
If e'er I lov'd her, all that love is gone.
^{4 note}

Lys.
It is not so.

Dem.
Disparage not the faith, thou dost not know,
Lest to thy peril thou abide it dear.
Look, where thy love comes, yonder is thy dear.

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