This whole earth may be bored and that the moon
May through the centre creep and so displease
brother's noontide with Antipodes.
It cannot be but thou hast murder'd him;
So should a murderer look, so
dead, so grim.
So should the murder'd look, and so should I,
Pierced through the heart with your stern cruelty:
the murderer, look as bright, as clear,
As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere.
What's this to my Lysander? where is he?
Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me?
I had rather give his carcass to my hounds.
Out, dog! out, cur! thou drivest me past the bounds
Of maiden's patience. Hast thou slain him, then?
be never number'd among men!
O, once tell true, tell true, even for my sake!
Durst thou have look'd upon
him being awake,
And hast thou kill'd him sleeping? O brave touch!
Could not a worm, an adder, do so
An adder did it; for with doubler tongue
Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung.
You spend your passion on a misprised mood:
I am not guilty of Lysander's blood;
Nor is he dead, for
aught that I can tell.
I pray thee, tell me then that he is well.
An if I could, what should I get therefore?
A privilege never to see me more.
And from thy hated presence part I so:
See me no more, whether he
be dead or no.
There is no following her in this fierce vein:
Here therefore for a while I will remain.
So sorrow's heaviness
doth heavier grow
For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe:
Which now in some slight measure it
If for his tender here I make some stay.
Lies down and sleeps
What hast thou done? thou hast mistaken quite
And laid the love-juice on some true-love's sight:
misprision must perforce ensue
Some true love turn'd and not a false turn'd true.
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