« AnteriorContinuar »
Enter Lysander. Lys. Where art thou, proud Demetrius ? speak
thou now.', Puck. Here, villain; diawn and ready. Where
art thou ? Lys. I will be with thee straight. Puck, .
. Follow me then To plainer ground.
[Exit Lys. as following the voice.
Enter Demetrius. Dem. . , Lysander ! speak again. Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fed? Speak. In some bush? Where dost thou hide thy
i head ? .
Yea; art thou there? Puck. Follow my voice; we'll try no manhood here.
[Exeunt. Re-enter Lysander. Lys. He goes before me, and still dares me on ; When I come where he calls, then he is gone. The villain is much lighter heel'd than 1: I follow'd fast, but faster he did Ay; That fallen am I in dark uneven way, And here will rest me. Come, thou gentle day!
[Lies down. For if but once thou show me thy grey light, I'll find Demetrius, and revenge this spite.
[Sleeps. Re-enter Puck and Demetrius. Puck. Ho, ho! ho, ho! Coward, why com’st thou
Dem. Abide me, if thou dar'st; for well I wot, Thou runn'st before me, shifting every place; And dar'st not stand, nor look me in the face. Where art thou ?
Puck. Come hither; I am here.
buy this dear,
[Lies down and sleeps,
Abate thy hours: shine, comforts, from the east; That I may back to Athens, by day-light,
From these that my poor company detest: - And, sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye, Steal me awhile from mine own company. [Sleeps,
Puck. Yet but three? Come one more;
Bedabbled with dew, and tore with briars;
My legs can keep no pace with my desires. Here will I rest me, till the break of day. Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray|
[Lies down Puck, On the ground
To your eye,
[Squeezing the juice on Lysander's eye,
When thou wak'st,
In the sight.
Jack shall have Jill :
Nought shall go ill; The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well.
[Exit Puck.—Dem. Hel. &c. sleep.
SCENE I. The same.
Oberon behind unseen, .
While I thy amiable cheeks do coy*,
And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy.
Bot. Scratch my head, Peas-blossom.-Where's monsieur Cobweb?
Bot. Monsieur Cobweb; good monsieur, get your weapons in your hand, and kill me a red-hipped humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good monsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, monsieur ; and good monsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not; I would be loath to have you over-flown with a honey-bag, signior.- Where's monsieur Mustard-seed? Must. Ready. Bot. Give me your neift, monsieur Mustard-seed.
* Stroke, of Fist,