Monday, March 17, 2014

I love thee not, therefore pursue me not.
Where is Lysander and fair Hermia? 
The one I'll stay, the other stayeth me. 
Thou told'st me they were stol'n unto this wood. 
And here am I, and wood within this wood, 
Because I cannot meet my Hermia. 
Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more. 

You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant. 
But yet you draw not iron, for my heart
Is true as steel. Leave you your power to draw, 
And I shall have no power to follow you. 

Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair? 
Or rather, do I not in plainest truth 
Tell you I do not, nor I cannot, love you?

And even for that do I love you the more. 
I am your spaniel. And, Demetrius, 
The more you beat me, I will fawn on you. 
Use me but as your spaniel--spurn me, strike me, 
Neglect me, lose me. Only give me leave, 
Unworthy as I am, to follow you. 
What worser place can I beg in your love---
And yet a place of high respect with me--
Than to be used as you use your dog? 

Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit. 
For I am sick when I do look on thee. 

And I am sick when I look not on you. 

You do impeach your modesty too much, 
To leave the city and commit yourself 
Into the hands of one that loves you not, 
To truth the opportunity of night 
And the ill counsel of a desert place
With the rich worth of your virginity. 

Your virtue is my privilege. For that
It is not nigh when I do see your face. 
Therefore I think I am not in the night. 
Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, 
For you in my respect are all the world. 
Then how can it be said I am alone 
When all the world is here to look on me? 

I'll run from thee and hide me in the brakes, 
And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts. 

The wildest hath not such a heart as you. 
Run when you will, the story shall be changed. 
Apollo flies and Daphne holds the chase. 
The dove pursues the griffin. The mild hind 
Makes speech to catch the tiger--bootless speed, 
When cowardice pursues and valor flies. 

I will not stay thy questions. Let me go. 
Or if thou follow me, do not believe 
But I shall do thee mischief in the wood. 

Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field 
You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius!
Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex. 
We cannot fight for love as men may do. 
We should be wooed and were not make to woo. 


I'll follow thee and make a heaven of hell, 
To die upon the hand I love so well. 

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