LYSANDER.
Fair love, you're faint with wandring in the wood;
  And, to speak truth, I have forgot our way:
We'll rest us, Hermia, if thou think it good,
  And tarry for the comfort of the day.

HERMIA.
Be't so, Lysander; find you out a bed,
For I upon this bank will rest my head.

LYSANDER.
One turf shall serve as pillow for us both,
One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth.
DUETTE.
Not the silver doves that fly,
  Yoak'd in Cytherea's car;
Are so beauteous to the eye,
  Are so choicely match'd by far.
Not the Wings that bear aloft
  The gay sportive God of love,
Are so lovely bright and soft,
  Or with more consent do move.

LYSANDER.
There will I lie; sleep give thee all his rest.

HERMIA.
With half that wish, the wisher's eyes be prest. [They sleep.

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