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Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.

Her.

Now I but chide; but I should use thee worse,

For thou (I fear) hast given me cause to curse.

If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep,

Being o’er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep,

And kill me too.

The sun was not so true unto the day

As he to me. Would he have stolen 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 th’ Antipodes.

It cannot be but thou hast murd’red him;

So should a murtherer look—so dead, so grim.

Dem.

So should the murthered look, and so should I,

Pierc’d through the heart with your stern cruelty.

Yet you, the murtherer, look as bright, as clear,

As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere.

Her.

What’s this to my Lysander? Where is he?

Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me?

Dem.

I had rather give his carcass to my hounds.

Her.

Out, dog, out, cur! thou driv’st me past the bounds

Of maiden’s patience. Hast thou slain him then?