A Midsummer Night's Dream

by William Shakespeare; Helen Hackett (Foreword by); T. J. B. Spencer (Contribution by); Stanley Wells (Editor)

$16.95

ISBN
9780141012605
FORMAT
Paperback
NUMBER OF PAGES
224

Product Description

Excerpt: ...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 conge
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