A Midsummer Night's Dream - Helena

Godspeed, fair Helena. Whither away?

Call you me "fair"? That "fair" again unsay. Demetrius loves your fair. O happy fair! Your eyes are lodestars and your tongue's sweet air more tunable than lark to shepherd's ear when wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. Sickness is catching. O, were favor so! Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go. My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye; My tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody. Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated, the rest I'd give to be to you translated. O, teach me how you look and with what art you sway the motion of Demetrius' heart!

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 usèd as you use your dog.

And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake. Transparent Helena! Nature shows art, that through thy bosom makes me see thy heart. Where is Demetrius? O, how fit a word is that vile name to perish on my sword!

Do not say so. Lysander, say not so. What though he love your Hermia? Lord, what though? Yet Hermia still loves you. Then be content.

The more I hate the more he follows me.

The more I love, the more he hateth 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 speed to catch the tiger. Bootless speed when cowardice pursues and valor flies!

Content with Hermia? No, I do repent the tedious minutes I with her have spent. Not Hermia, but Helena I love. Who will not change a raven for a dove? The will of man is by his reason swayed, and reason says you are the worthier maid. Things growing are not ripe until their season; So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason. And touching now the point of human skill, reason becomes the marshal to my will and leads me to your eyes, where I o'erlook love's stories written in love's richest book.

Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, that I did never, no, nor never can deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, but you must flout my insufficiency? Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, you do, in such disdainful manner me to woo. But fare you well. Perforce I must confess I thought you lord of more true gentleness. O, that a lady of one man refused should of another therefore be abused!

Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears. Look when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, in their negativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, bearing the badge of faith to prove them true?

You do advance your cunning more and more. When truth kills truth, O devilish holy fray! These vows are Hermia's. Will you give her o'er? Weigh oath with oath and you will nothing weigh. Your vows to her and me, put in two scales, will even weigh, and both as light as tales.

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.

You do impeach your modesty too much To leave the city and commit yourself Into the hands of one that loves you not, To trust 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 night 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?

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.

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 made to woo. I'll follow thee and make a heaven of hell to die upon the hand I love so well.

I will, my Hermia. Helena adieu. As you on him, Demetrius dote on you!

How happy some o'er other some can be! Through Athens I am thought as fair as she. But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so. He will not know what all but he do know. And, as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes, so I, admiring of his qualities. Things base and vile, holding no quantity, love can transpose too form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind; and therefore is winged cupid painted blind. Nor hath love's mind of any judgement taste. Wings, and no eyes, figure unheedy haste. And therefore is love said to be a child because in choice he is so oft beguiled. As waggish boys in game themselves forswear, so the boy love is perjured everywhere. For; ere Demetrius looked on Hermit's eyne, he hailed down oaths that he was only mine; and this hail some heat from Hermia felt, so, he dissolved, and show'rs of oaths did melt. I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight. Then to the wood will he tomorrow night pursue her. And for this intelligence if I have thanks, it is a dear expense. But herein mean I to enrich my pain, to have his sight thither and back again.

You speak not as you think. It cannot be.

Lo, she is one of this confederacy! Now I perceive they have conjoined all three to fashion this false sport in spite of me. Injurious Hermia! Most ungrateful maid! Have you conspired, have you with these contrived to bait me with this foul derision? Is all the counsel we two have shared, the sister's vows, the hours that we two have spent, when we had chid the hasty-footed time for parting us- O, is all forgot? All school day's friendship, childhood innocence? We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, have with our needles created both one flower, both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, both warbling of one song, both in one key, as if our hands, our sides, voices, and mind, had been incorporate. So we grow together, like to a double cherry, seeming parted, but yet an union in partition; two lovely berries moulded on one stem; so, with two seeming bodies, but one heart; two of the first, like coats in heraldry, due but to one and crowned with one crest. And will you rent our ancient love asunder, to join with men in scorning your poor friend? It is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly; Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it, though I alone do feel the injury.

You are unkind, Demetrius. Be not so, for you love Hermia; this you know I know. And here with all goodwill, with all my heart, in Hermia's love I yield you up my part. And yours of Helena to me bequeath, whom I do love and will do till my death.

Never did mockers waste more idle breath.

His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.

None but your beauty. Would that fault were mine!

I had no judgment when to her I swore.

Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o'er.

O Helen, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow! That pure congealèd white, high Taurus' snow, fanned with the eastern wind, turns to a crow when thou hold'st up thy hand. O, let me kiss this princess of pure white, this seal of bliss!

O spite! O hell! I see you all ar event to set against me for your merriment. If you were civil and knew courtesy, you would not do me thus much injury. Can you not hate me, as I know you do, but you must join in souls to mock me too? If you were men, as men you are in show, you would not use a gentle lady so, to vow and swear and superpraise my parts, when, I am sure, you hate me with your hearts. You both are rivals and love Hermia, and now both rivals to mock Helena. A trim exploit, a manly enterprise, to conjure tears up in a poor maid's eyes with your derision. None of noble sort would so offend a virgin and extort a poor soul's patience, all to make you sport.

Stay, on thy peril. I alone will go.

O, I am out of breath in this fond chase. The more my prayer; the lesser is my grace. Happy is Hermia, wheresoe'er she lies, for she hath blessèd and attractive eyes. How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears. If so, my eyes are oftener washed than hers. No, no, I am as ugly as a bear, for beasts that meet me run away for fear. Therefore no marvel though Demetrius do as a monster fly my presence thus. What wicked and dissembling glass of mine made me compare with Hermia's sphery eye? But who is here? Lysander, on the ground! Dead or asleep? I see no blood, no wound. Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake.

I give him curses, yet he gives me love.

O, that my prayers could such affection move!

I frown upon him, yet he loves me still.

O, that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill!

I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.

O, wilt thou darkling leave me? Do not so.

Through the forest have I gone, But Athenian found I none On whose eyes I might approve This flower's force in stirring love. Night and silence! Who is here? Weeds of Athens he doth wear.

Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius.