Helena.
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.
Her.
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,
Fann'd with the eastern wind, turns to a crow
-- 136 --
When thou hold'st up thy hand. O let me kiss
(a) noteThis Pureness of pure white, this feal of bliss.
Hel.
O spight, O hell! I see you all are bent
To set against me, for your merriment:
If you were civil, and knew courtesie,
You would not do me thus much injury.
3 note
Can you not hate me, as I know you do,
But must join insolents 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
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.
-- 137 --
My heart to her but, as guest-wise, sojourn'd;
And now to Helen it is home return'd,
There ever to remain.
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.
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
