William Shakespeare - Ultimate Collection: Complete Plays & Poetry in One Volume. William ShakespeareЧитать онлайн книгу.
And kill me too.
The sun was not so true unto the day
As he to me: would he have stol’n away
From sleeping Hermia? I’ll believe as soon
This whole earth may be bor’d; 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,
Pierc’d through the heart with your stern cruelty:
Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear,
As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere.
HERMIA
What’s this to my Lysander? where is he?
Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me?
DEMETRIUS
I had rather give his carcass to my hounds.
HERMIA
Out, dog! out, cur! thou driv’st me past the bounds
Of maiden’s patience. Hast thou slain him, then?
Henceforth be never number’d among men!
Oh! once tell true; tell true, even for my sake;
Durst thou have look’d upon him, being awake,
And hast thou kill’d him sleeping? O brave touch!
Could not a worm, an adder, do so much?
An adder did it; for with doubler tongue
Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung.
DEMETRIUS
You spend your passion on a mispris’d mood:
I am not guilty of Lysander’s blood;
Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell.
HERMIA
I pray thee, tell me, then, that he is well.
DEMETRIUS
An if I could, what should I get therefore?
HERMIA
A privilege never to see me more.—
And from thy hated presence part I so:
See me no more whether he be dead or no.
[Exit.]
DEMETRIUS
There is no following her in this fierce vein:
Here, therefore, for a while I will remain.
So sorrow’s heaviness doth heavier grow
For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe;
Which now in some slight measure it will pay,
If for his tender here I make some stay.
[Lies down.]
OBERON
What hast thou done? thou hast mistaken quite,
And laid the love-juice on some true-love’s sight:
Of thy misprision must perforce ensue
Some true love turn’d, and not a false turn’d true.
PUCK
Then fate o’errules, that, one man holding troth,
A million fail, confounding oath on oath.
OBERON
About the wood go, swifter than the wind,
And Helena of Athens look thou find:
All fancy-sick she is, and pale of cheer,
With sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear.
By some illusion see thou bring her here;
I’ll charm his eyes against she do appear.
PUCK
I go, I go; look how I go,—
Swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow.
[Exit.]
OBERON
Flower of this purple dye,
Hit with Cupid’s archery,
Sink in apple of his eye!
When his love he doth espy,
Let her shine as gloriously
As the Venus of the sky.—
When thou wak’st, if she be by,
Beg of her for remedy.
[Re-enter PUCK.]
PUCK
Captain of our fairy band,
Helena is here at hand,
And the youth mistook by me
Pleading for a lover’s fee;
Shall we their fond pageant see?
Lord, what fools these mortals be!
OBERON
Stand aside: the noise they make
Will cause Demetrius to awake.
PUCK
Then will two at once woo one,—
That must needs be sport alone;
And those things do best please me
That befall preposterously.
[Enter LYSANDER and HELENA.]
LYSANDER
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?
HELENA
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.
LYSANDER
I had no judgment when to her I swore.
HELENA
Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o’er.
LYSANDER
Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you.
DEMETRIUS
[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 congealèd white, high Taurus’ snow,
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!
HELENA
O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent
To set against me for your merriment.