Other Fairies attending the King and Queen
SCENE, Athen3, and a Wood not far from it.
Enter Thefeus, and Hippolita, with Attendants.
OW, fair Hippolita, our nuptial hour
Draws on apace; four happy days bring in
Another moon: But oh, methinks how flow
This old moon wanes! She lingers my defires,
Like to a step-dame, or a dowager,
Long withering out a young man's revenue.
Hip. Four days will quickly steep themselves in nights,
And then the moon, like to a filver bow,
New bent in heaven, shall behold the night,
Of our folemnities.
Stir up th' Athenian youth to merriments;
Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth :
Turn melancholy forth to funerals.
The pale companion is not for our pomp.
Hippolita, I woo'd thee with my fword,
And won thy love, doing thee injuries:
But I will wed thee in another key,
With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling.
Enter Egeus, Hermia, Lyfander, and Demetrius.
Ege. Happy be Thefeus our renowned Duke.
The. Thanks, good Egeus; what's the news with thee?
Ege. Full of vexation, come I with complaint
Against my child, my daughter Hermia.
-Stand forth, Demetrius. My noble Lord,
This man hath my confent to marry her.
Stand forth, Lyfander. And, my gracious Duke,
This hath bewitch'd the bofom of my child:
Thou, thou, Lyfander. And, my noble Lord,
Ba't fo, fhe will not here, before your Grace,
Confent to marry with Demetrius,
I beg the ancient privilege of Athens;
As the is mine, I may dispose of her:
Which shall he either to this gentleman,
Or to her death, according to our law.
The. What fay you, Hermia? Be advis'd, fair maid,
Demetrius is a worthy gentleman.
Her. So is Lyfander.
The., In himself he is;
But in this kind, wanting your father's voice,
The other must be held the worthier.
Her. I do intreat your Grace to pardon me :
I know not by what pow'r I am made bold,
In fuch a prefence here to plead my thoughts:
But I beseech your Grace, that I may know
The worst that may befall, if I refufe,
The. Either to die the death, or to abjure
For ever the fociety of men;
Therefore, fair Hermia, queftion your defires,
Whether not yielding to your father's choice,
You can endure the livery of a nun:
Thrice bleffed they that mafter fo their blood,
But earthlier happy is the rofe diftill'd,
Than that, which withering on the virgin thorn,
Grows, lives, and dies, in fingle bleffedness.
Her. So will I grow, fo live, fo die, my Lord,
Ere I will yield my virgin heart and hand
Unto his Lordship, to whose unwish'd yoke
My foul confents not to give fov'reignty.
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