So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason;
And touching now the point of human skill,
Reason becomes the marshal to my will,120
And leads me to your eyes; where I o'erlook
Love's stories written in love's richest book.
Hel. Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born?123
When at your hands did I deserve this scorn?
Is 't not enough, is 't not enough, young man,
That I did never, no, nor never can,
Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye,
But you must flout my insufficiency?128
Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, you do,
In such disdainful manner me to woo.
But fare you well: perforce I must confess
I thought you lord of more true gentleness.132
O! that a lady of one man refus'd,
Should of another therefore be abus'd.Exit.
Lys. She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there;
And never mayst thou come Lysander near.136
For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things
The deepest loathing to the stomach brings;
Or, as the heresies that men do leave
Are hated most of those they did deceive:140
So thou, my surfeit and my heresy,
Of all be hated, but the most of me!
And, all my powers, address your love and might
To honour Helen, and to be her knight. Exit.
Her. [Awaking.] Help me, Lysander, help me! do thy best145
To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast.
Ay me, for pity! what a dream was here!
119 point: summit
