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Against my child, my daughter Hermia.

Stand forth, Demetrius. My noble lord,

This man hath my consent to marry her.

Stand forth, Lysander. And, my gracious Duke,

This man hath bewitch’d the bosom of my child.

Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes,

And interchang’d love-tokens with my child;

Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung

With faining voice verses of faining love,

And stol’n the impression of her fantasy

With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits,

Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats—messengers

Of strong prevailment in unhardened youth.

With cunning hast thou filch’d my daughter’s heart,

Turn’d her obedience (which is due to me)

To stubborn harshness. And, my gracious Duke,

Be it so she will not here before your Grace

Consent to marry with Demetrius,

I beg the ancient privilege of Athens:

As she is mine, I may dispose of her;

Which shall be either to this gentleman,

Or to her death, according to our law

Immediately provided in that case.

The.

What say you, Hermia? Be advis’d, fair maid.