DEMETRIUS Relent, sweet Hermia;—and, Lysander, yield Thy crazed title to my certain right.
HERMIA So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord, Ere I will yield my virgin patent up Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke My soul consents not to give sovereignty.
— For you, fair Hermia, look you arm yourself To fit your fancies to your father’s will, Or else the law of Athens yields you up,— Which by no means we may extenuate,— To death, or to a vow of single life.
Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires, Know of your youth, examine well your blood, Whether, if you yield not to your father’s choice, You can endure the livery of a nun; For aye to be shady cloister mew’d, To live a barren sister all your life, Chanting faint hymns to the cold, fruitless moon.
And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend; If you pardon, we will mend.
LYSANDER You are unkind, Demetrius; be not so; For you love Hermia: this you know I know: And here, with all good will, 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.