A Midsummer Night's Dream Act 3 Scene 2

I wonder whether Titania has woken,

and what it was she first laid eyes on,

which she'll now be besotted with beyond all reason.

Here comes my messenger. Well, mad spirit —

what mischief has the night brought to this haunted wood?

My mistress is in love with a monster.

Close to her private, sacred bower,

while she was deep in her sleeping hours,

a gang of clowns — ignorant working men

who earn their bread at Athenian market stalls —

had gathered to rehearse a play

intended for great Theseus's wedding day.

The thickest blockhead of that witless crew,

the one playing Pyramus, left the stage

in the middle of their performance and went into a thicket —

and while I had him at that advantage

I fixed a donkey's head on his shoulders.

Soon his Thisbe needed an answer,

and out comes my actor. When they saw him —

like wild geese spotting a creeping hunter,

or a flock of grey-headed jackdaws

rising and cawing at a gunshot,

scattering and sweeping madly across the sky —

so his friends flew off at the sight of him.

And at my stamping, one after another goes down.

One cries murder and calls to Athens for help.

Their wits so weak and their fears so strong,

lifeless things started attacking them:

briars and thorns snatched at their clothes,

taking sleeves and hats — everything grabs at people who give in.

I led them on in that panicked terror

and left sweet Pyramus transformed behind me.

And at that very moment, as it happened,

Titania woke and instantly fell in love with a donkey.

This has turned out better than I could have planned.

But have you anointed the Athenian's eyes

with the love juice, as I told you to?

I caught him sleeping — that's done as well —

with the Athenian woman beside him,

so that when he woke he was bound to see her.

Keep hidden. This is the same Athenian.

That's the woman, but that isn't the man. (The first anyone realises. It's already far too late.)

Why do you scold a man who loves you so much?

Save that bitterness for your worst enemy.

I'm only scolding you now, but I should treat you far worse —

because I'm afraid you've given me reason to curse you.

If you've killed Lysander in his sleep,

then you're already ankle-deep in blood — go all the way in

and kill me too.

The sun isn't as faithful to the day

as he was to me. Would he have crept away

from a sleeping Hermia? I'd sooner believe

that the earth could be drilled through and the moon

could crawl through the middle of it and annoy

the sun by turning up at midday on the other side of the world.

It has to be that you've murdered him.

That's exactly how a murderer would look — deathly and grim.

That's how the murdered man would look too — and so do I,

stabbed through the heart by your harsh cruelty.

And yet you, the murderer, look as bright and clear

as Venus shining up there in her orbit.

What has this to do with my Lysander? Where is he?

Good Demetrius — will you give him back to me?

I'd rather feed his corpse to my dogs.

Get away, you dog! You mongrel! You're driving me past the limits

of any woman's patience. So you have killed him?

From now on, don't count yourself a man!

Just once, tell the truth — for my sake.

Would you have dared even look at him awake?

And you killed him asleep? What a heroic stroke!

Couldn't a worm — a snake — have managed that much?

A snake did do it: no adder ever stung

with a more forked tongue than yours, you serpent.

You're wasting your fury on a misunderstanding.

I'm not guilty of Lysander's blood,

and as far as I know he isn't even dead.

Then please tell me he's all right.

And if I could, what would I get for it?

The privilege of never seeing me again.

And I'm leaving your hateful company now.

Don't come near me again, whether he's dead or not.

There's no point following her in this fierce mood.

So I'll stay here a while.

Sorrow's weight grows heavier

because of the sleep I'm owed and haven't had —

which it will repay a little now

if I wait here to collect.

What have you done? You've got it completely wrong

and put the love juice on some genuine lover's eyes.

Your mistake must inevitably mean

a true love turned false, instead of a false one turned true.

Then fate is in charge — because for every man who keeps faith,

a million break it, promise cancelling promise.

Go through the wood faster than the wind

and find Helena of Athens.

She's lovesick and pale-faced

from sighs of love, which cost the heart's blood dearly.

Use some trick to bring her here.

I'll enchant his eyes before she arrives.

I'm going, I'm going — watch how I go,

faster than an arrow from a Tartar's bow.

Flower of this purple dye,

struck by Cupid's arrow,

sink into the pupil of his eye.

When he sees the woman who loves him,

let her shine as gloriously

as Venus in the heavens.

When you wake, if she's nearby,

beg her for a cure.

Captain of our fairy band,

Helena is close by,

and the young man I mistook,

pleading for a lover's reward.

Shall we watch their foolish performance?

Lord, what fools these mortals are!

Stand aside. The noise they make

will wake Demetrius.

Then two men will court one woman at once —

that's bound to be unmatched entertainment.

And the things that please me most

are the ones that happen back to front.

Why would you think I'm courting you mockingly?

Mockery and ridicule don't come with tears.

Look — when I make a vow I weep. And vows born that way

carry the proof of their sincerity at birth.

How can any of this look like mockery to you,

when it wears the badge of sincerity?

You're getting more and more devious.

When one truth destroys another — what a devilishly holy fight!

These vows belong to Hermia. Are you abandoning her?

Weigh one promise against the other and they cancel out.

Your vows to her and to me, put on two scales,

balance exactly — both as weightless as fairy tales.

I had no judgment when I swore to her.

And none now, in my opinion, when you abandon her.

Demetrius loves her, and he doesn't love you.

(waking) Helena! Goddess! Nymph! Perfect! Divine!

What can I compare your eyes to, my love?

Crystal is muddy beside them. How ripe and tempting

your lips look — those kissable cherries!

That pure frozen white, the snow on the Taurus mountains,

fanned by the east wind, turns black as a crow

when you hold up your hand. Let me kiss

this princess of pure white, this seal of happiness! (Both men are now drugged and both are performing exactly the same routine. That is the point.)

Oh, cruelty! Oh, hell! I can see you're all determined

to gang up on me for your own amusement.

If you were decent and knew any manners

you wouldn't hurt me like this.

Can't you hate me — as I know you do —

without joining forces to mock me as well?

If you were men, as you look like men,

you wouldn't treat a well-bred woman like this:

vowing and swearing and wildly overpraising my qualities

when I'm certain you hate me in your hearts.

You're both rivals, and you both love Hermia.

And now you're both rivals in mocking Helena.

What a fine achievement, what a manly undertaking:

forcing tears into a poor girl's eyes

with your ridicule. No decent man

would insult a girl like this, or wring

the patience out of her, just for sport.

You're being unkind, Demetrius. Don't be.

You love Hermia — and you know I know it.

So here, with all good will and all my heart,

I hand over my share in Hermia's love to you,

and you leave me your share in Helena,

whom I love and will love until I die.

No mockers ever wasted more empty breath.

Lysander, keep your Hermia. I don't want her.

If I ever loved her, that love is gone.

My heart only stayed with her like a guest,

and now it's come home to Helena

and there it'll stay.

Helena, it isn't true.

Don't belittle a devotion you know nothing about,

or you'll pay dearly for it, at your own risk.

Look — here comes your love. There's your sweetheart.

Dark night, which takes away the eye's power,

sharpens the ear's quickness instead.

What it takes from the sense of sight

it repays double to the hearing.

It wasn't my eye that found you, Lysander;

my ear — thank goodness — led me to your voice.

But why did you leave me so unkindly?

Why should a man stay when love drives him away?

What love could drive Lysander from my side?

Lysander's love, which wouldn't let him stay —

fair Helena, who gilds the night more brightly

than all those burning circles and eyes of light up there.

Why are you looking for me? Couldn't this tell you

that it was hatred of you that made me leave?

You don't mean what you're saying. It's impossible.

There — she's part of the conspiracy too!

Now I see all three of them have joined together

to stage this fake joke, to spite me.

Cruel Hermia! Most ungrateful girl!

Have you plotted — have you schemed with these two —

to torment me with this foul mockery?

Is everything the two of us confided,

the sisterly promises, the hours we spent

scolding time for running too fast

and separating us — is it all forgotten?

All our schooldays' friendship, our childhood innocence?

We two, Hermia, like a pair of creating gods,

made a single flower with our needles,

both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,

both singing one song in the same key,

as though our hands, our bodies, our voices and minds

were a single thing. That's how we grew together —

like a double cherry, seemingly separate

but joined even in being divided:

two lovely berries formed on a single stem;

two apparent bodies with one heart between them.

Two coats of arms, as heraldry has it,

belonging to one person and topped by a single crest.

And will you tear our old love apart

to side with men in mocking your poor friend?

It isn't friendly and it isn't decent.

All women, not only I, could scold you for it,

even though I'm the only one hurt by it.

I'm astonished by this outburst.

I'm not mocking you. It seems you're mocking me.

Didn't you put Lysander up to it, as a joke,

to follow me and praise my eyes and face?

And didn't you get your other admirer, Demetrius —

who only a moment ago kicked me aside —

to call me a goddess, a nymph, divine and rare,

precious, heavenly? Why would he say all that

to a woman he hates? And why does Lysander

deny the love for you that fills his soul,

and offer his affection to me instead,

unless you put him up to it and agreed to it?

So what if I'm not as favoured as you,

not so surrounded by love, not so lucky,

but the most wretched of all, loving without being loved?

You ought to pity that, not despise it.

I don't understand what you mean.

Yes, go on — keep it up, fake those serious faces.

Pull faces at me when my back is turned,

wink at each other, keep the lovely joke going.

This prank, well managed, will go down in history.

If you had any pity, decency or manners

you wouldn't make me the butt of it.

But goodbye. It's partly my own fault,

and death or distance will soon fix that.

Stay, gentle Helena — hear my explanation,

my love, my life, my soul, fair Helena!

Oh, wonderful!

Sweetheart, don't mock her like that.

If she can't persuade you, I can force you.

You can force me no more than she can persuade me.

Your threats have no more force than her feeble pleading.

Helena, I love you — on my life, I do.

I swear by the life I'd lose for you,

to prove anyone a liar who says I don't.

I say I love you more than he possibly could.

If you say so, step aside and prove it.

Come on then, quickly!

Lysander, what is all this leading to?

Get off me, you dark-skinned thing! (Hermia is dark-haired and dark-complexioned. He turns it into an insult.)

No, no — he'll

pretend to pull free. Act as though you're coming

but not actually come. You're a tame man — go on!

Let go, you cat, you burr! Vile thing, let go,

or I'll shake you off like a snake!

Why have you become so cruel? What's changed?

My love?

Your love! Get away, you brown-skinned savage!

Get away, you loathsome poison! Hated potion, be gone! (He is under a potion. He does not know it.)

Aren't you joking?

Oh yes, truly — and so are you.

Demetrius, I'll keep my promise to you.

I wish I had it in writing, because I can see

a feeble pair of arms is holding you. I won't trust your word.

What, should I hurt her — hit her, kill her?

I hate her, but I won't harm her like that.

What greater harm could you do me than hating me?

Hate me? Why? What is this, my love?

Aren't I Hermia? Aren't you Lysander?

I'm as good-looking now as I was a while ago.

You loved me tonight, and tonight you left me.

So you did leave me — gods forbid —

in earnest, must I say?

Yes, on my life,

and I never wanted to see you again.

So give up all hope, all questioning, all doubt.

Be sure of it — nothing is truer. It's no joke

that I hate you and love Helena.

You trickster! You worm-eaten flower!

You love-thief! Did you come by night

and steal my love's heart out of him?

Charming, I'm sure!

Have you no modesty, no girlish shame,

not a trace of restraint? Are you going to force

angry answers out of my gentle mouth?

Shame on you, you fake, you puppet!

Puppet? Is that it? Ah, so that's the game.

Now I see she's been drawing comparisons

between our heights. She's been pushing her height,

and with her figure — her tall figure —

she's won him over, apparently.

And have you risen so high in his opinion

because I'm so dwarfish and short?

How short am I, you painted maypole? Tell me.

How short am I? I'm not yet so short

that my nails can't reach your eyes. (Two women who made one flower with one needle on one cushion, now fighting about height.)

Please, gentlemen — mock me if you like,

but don't let her hurt me. I was never bad-tempered.

I've no talent at all for shrewishness.

I'm a proper girl when it comes to cowardice.

Don't let her hit me. You may think

that because she's somewhat shorter than me

I could take her on.

'Shorter'? There it is again.

Good Hermia, don't be so bitter with me.

I always loved you, Hermia.

I always kept your secrets, never wronged you —

except that, out of love for Demetrius,

I told him you were slipping away to this wood.

He followed you; out of love, I followed him.

But he's driven me off and threatened

to hit me, kick me — even to kill me.

And now, if you'll just let me go quietly,

I'll carry my foolishness back to Athens

and follow you no further. Let me go.

You can see how simple and foolish I am.

Then go. Who's stopping you?

A foolish heart, which I'm leaving behind here.

What — with Lysander?

With Demetrius.

Don't be afraid. She won't hurt you, Helena.

No, sir, she won't — even with you defending her.

When she's angry she's sharp and vicious!

She was a little terror at school.

And though she's small, she's fierce.

'Little' again! Nothing but 'short' and 'little'!

Why are you letting her insult me like this?

Let me get at her.

Go away, you dwarf,

you tiny thing, made out of stunting weeds,

you bead, you acorn.

You're being far too helpful

on behalf of a woman who doesn't want your help.

Leave her alone. Don't speak about Helena.

Don't take her side — because if you show

even the smallest sign of love for her,

you'll pay for it.

She isn't holding me now.

Follow me, if you dare, and we'll test whose claim

to Helena is stronger — yours or mine.

Follow? No — I'll walk right beside you.

You, madam — all this chaos is your doing.

Don't back away.

I don't trust you,

and I won't stay in your foul company any longer.

Your hands are quicker in a fight than mine —

but my legs are longer for running away.

I'm bewildered, and I don't know what to say.

This is your carelessness. You're always getting things wrong —

or else you play your tricks deliberately.

Believe me, king of shadows, it was a mistake.

Didn't you tell me I'd recognise the man

by the Athenian clothes he was wearing?

So my work is blameless that far:

I did anoint an Athenian's eyes.

And I'm glad it turned out this way,

because I find their squabbling excellent entertainment.

You can see these lovers looking for somewhere to fight.

So hurry, Robin — cloud over the night.

Cover the starry sky at once

with hanging fog as black as the river of hell,

and lead these irritable rivals so far astray

that neither one crosses the other's path.

Sometimes imitate Lysander's voice,

then provoke Demetrius with bitter insults;

and sometimes rant like Demetrius.

Lead them away from each other like that

until death-imitating sleep creeps over their brows

on leaden legs and bat's wings.

Then squeeze this herb into Lysander's eye.

Its juice has the useful property

of removing all error by its power

and restoring his eyes to their normal sight.

When they next wake, all this mockery

will seem a dream, an empty vision,

and the lovers will make their way back to Athens

in a bond that will last until death.

While I've got you busy with this,

I'll go to my queen and beg for her Indian boy.

And then I'll release her enchanted eyes

from the sight of the monster, and everything will be at peace.

My fairy lord, this must be done quickly.

Night's swift dragons are cutting through the clouds fast,

and the morning star is already shining.

At its approach, ghosts wandering about

troop home to churchyards. All the damned spirits

buried at crossroads or drowned in water

have already gone back to their wormy beds,

for fear the daylight might see their shame.

They deliberately exile themselves from the light

and must keep company with dark night forever.

But we're spirits of a different kind.

I've often gone hunting with the dawn's lover,

and like a forester I can walk the woods

right until the eastern gate, all fiery red,

opens on the ocean with blessed beams

and turns its salt green waters into yellow gold.

But hurry all the same — no delay.

We can still finish this business before daybreak.

Up and down, up and down,

I'll lead them up and down.

I'm feared in field and town.

Goblin, lead them up and down.

Here comes one of them.

Where are you, proud Demetrius? Speak up.

Here, villain — sword drawn and ready. Where are you?

I'll be with you right away.

Follow me, then,

to more level ground.

Lysander! Speak again!

You runaway, you coward — have you fled?

Speak! Are you in a bush? Where are you hiding?

You coward — are you boasting to the stars,

telling the bushes you're looking for a fight,

and refusing to come? Come on, deserter, come on, child —

I'll whip you with a stick. It would disgrace a man

to draw a sword on you.

So — you're over there?

Follow my voice. We won't test our courage here.

He keeps ahead of me and keeps daring me on.

When I reach where he called from, he's gone.

The villain is much faster on his feet than I am.

I followed fast, but he flew faster,

so now I've stumbled onto dark, rough ground,

and I'll rest here.

Come, gentle daylight!

If you'll only show me your grey light,

I'll find Demetrius and repay this spite.

Ho, ho, ho! Coward, why don't you come?

Stand and face me, if you dare — because I know perfectly well

you keep running ahead of me, changing places,

and don't dare stand still or look me in the eye.

Where are you now?

Over here. I'm here.

So you're mocking me. You'll pay dearly for this

if I ever see your face in daylight.

Go on then. Exhaustion is forcing me

to stretch out full length on this cold ground.

Expect a visit at daybreak.

Oh, exhausting night — long, tedious night —

shorten your hours! Shine comfort from the east

so I can get back to Athens by daylight,

away from these people who detest my company.

And sleep, which sometimes closes sorrow's eyes,

steal me away from my own company for a while.

Only three so far? Come on, one more —

two of each kind makes four.

Here she comes, cross and miserable.

Cupid is a mischievous boy,

driving poor women mad like this.

Never so exhausted, never so miserable,

soaked with dew and torn by briars —

I can't crawl any further, can't go on.

My legs can't keep up with what I want.

I'll rest here until daybreak.

Heaven protect Lysander, if they mean to fight!

On the ground,

sleep soundly.

I'll apply

to your eye,

gentle lover, the cure.

When you wake,

you'll take

true delight

in the sight

of the woman you loved before.

And the well-known country proverb

that every man should take what's his

will be proved when you wake.

Jack will have Jill;

nothing will go wrong;

the man will get his mare back, and all will be well.