A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 2, Scene 1

How now, spirit! Whither wander you?

Well, spirit! Where are you wandering?

FAIRY Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon’s sphere; And I serve the Fairy Queen, To dew her orbs upon the green. The cowslips tall her pensioners be, In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours. I must go seek some dew-drops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear. Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I’ll be gone. Our Queen and all her elves come here anon.

FAIRY Over hill, over valley, through bush, through briar, over park, over fence, through flood, through fire, I wander everywhere, faster than the moon's sphere; and I serve the Fairy Queen, sprinkling dew on her rings of grass on the green. The tall cowslips are her bodyguards, and you can see spots on their gold coats; those are rubies, gifts from the fairies, and their sweet smells live in those freckles. I must go and look for some dewdrops here, and hang a pearl in the ear of every cowslip. Goodbye, you lout of a spirit; I'm off. Our Queen and all her elves are coming here soon.

The King doth keep his revels here tonight; Take heed the Queen come not within his sight, For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, Because that she, as her attendant, hath A lovely boy, stol’n from an Indian king; She never had so sweet a changeling. And jealous Oberon would have the child Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild: But she perforce withholds the lovèd boy, Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy. And now they never meet in grove or green, By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen, But they do square; that all their elves for fear Creep into acorn cups, and hide them there.

The King is holding his celebrations here tonight. Make sure the Queen doesn't come where he can see her, because Oberon is extremely fierce and furious, since she has as her attendant a lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king; she never had such a sweet stolen child. And jealous Oberon wants the child to be a knight in his following, to roam the wild forests. But she keeps the beloved boy by force, crowns him with flowers, and makes him her whole joy. And now they never meet in a grove or on the green, by a clear spring, or in glittering bright starlight, without quarrelling; so that all their elves creep into acorn cups in fear and hide themselves there.

FAIRY Either I mistake your shape and making quite, Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite Call’d Robin Goodfellow. Are not you he That frights the maidens of the villagery, Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern, And bootless make the breathless housewife churn, And sometime make the drink to bear no barm, Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm? Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck, You do their work, and they shall have good luck. Are not you he?

FAIRY Either I'm completely mistaken about your shape and build, or else you're that cunning, mischievous spirit called Robin Goodfellow. Aren't you the one who frightens the girls of the villages, skims the cream off milk, sometimes works the hand-mill, and makes the breathless housewife churn with no result, and sometimes stops the drink from foaming, and leads night travellers astray, laughing at the trouble they come to? Those who call you Hobgoblin and sweet Puck — you do their work for them, and they get good luck. Aren't you the one?

Thou speak’st aright; I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon, and make him smile, When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, Neighing in likeness of a filly foal; And sometime lurk I in a gossip’s bowl In very likeness of a roasted crab, And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob, And on her withered dewlap pour the ale. The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me; Then slip I from her bum, down topples she, And ‘tailor’ cries, and falls into a cough; And then the whole quire hold their hips and loffe And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear A merrier hour was never wasted there. But room, fairy. Here comes Oberon.

You're right. I am that merry wanderer of the night. I make jokes for Oberon and make him smile when I trick a fat, bean-fed horse by neighing like a young mare; and sometimes I hide in a gossiping woman's bowl looking exactly like a roasted crab apple, and when she drinks I bump against her lips and pour the ale over her withered loose neck. The wisest old woman, telling the saddest story, sometimes mistakes me for a three-legged stool; then I slip out from under her backside, and down she topples, and cries "tailor!", and falls into a coughing fit; and then the whole company hold their sides and laugh and grow louder in their merriment, and sneeze, and swear that a merrier hour was never spent there. But make room, fairy. Here comes Oberon.

FAIRY And here my mistress. Would that he were gone!

FAIRY And here comes my mistress. I wish he were gone!

Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.

This is an unwelcome meeting by moonlight, proud Titania.

What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence; I have forsworn his bed and company.

What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, get away from here; I have sworn off his bed and his company.

Tarry, rash wanton; am not I thy lord?

Wait, reckless, wilful creature; am I not your husband and lord?

Then I must be thy lady; but I know When thou hast stol’n away from fairyland, And in the shape of Corin sat all day Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here, Come from the farthest steep of India, But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon, Your buskin’d mistress and your warrior love, To Theseus must be wedded; and you come To give their bed joy and prosperity?

Then I must be your lady; but I know when you have slipped away from fairyland and sat all day in the shape of Corin, playing on pipes made of corn stalks and making up love poems to the loving Phillida. Why are you here, come from the furthest mountains of India, except that, of course, the vigorous Amazon, your booted mistress and your warrior love, is to be married to Theseus, and you've come to bring joy and prosperity to their marriage bed?

How canst thou thus, for shame, Titania, Glance at my credit with Hippolyta, Knowing I know thy love to Theseus? Didst not thou lead him through the glimmering night From Perigenia, whom he ravished? And make him with fair Aegles break his faith, With Ariadne and Antiopa?

How can you, for shame, Titania, make sly hints about my good name where Hippolyta is concerned, when you know that I know about your love for Theseus? Didn't you lead him through the faintly lit night away from Perigenia, whom he had raped? And make him break his promises to lovely Aegles, and to Ariadne and Antiopa?

These are the forgeries of jealousy: And never, since the middle summer’s spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By pavèd fountain, or by rushy brook, Or on the beachèd margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturb’d our sport. Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, As in revenge, have suck’d up from the sea Contagious fogs; which, falling in the land, Hath every pelting river made so proud That they have overborne their continents. The ox hath therefore stretch’d his yoke in vain, The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn Hath rotted ere his youth attain’d a beard. The fold stands empty in the drownèd field, And crows are fatted with the murrion flock; The nine-men’s-morris is fill’d up with mud, And the quaint mazes in the wanton green, For lack of tread, are undistinguishable. The human mortals want their winter here. No night is now with hymn or carol blest. Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger, washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound. And thorough this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose; And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which. And this same progeny of evils comes From our debate, from our dissension; We are their parents and original.

These are lies invented by jealousy. And ever since the beginning of midsummer, we have never met on a hill, in a valley, in a forest or a meadow, by a spring with a stone rim, or by a reedy stream, or on the pebbled edge of the sea, to dance our ring dances to the whistling wind, without you disturbing our fun with your quarrelling. So the winds, piping to us for nothing, have as if in revenge sucked up infectious fogs from the sea, which have fallen on the land and made every little river swell so proudly that they have burst over their banks. So the ox has strained at his yoke for nothing, the ploughman has wasted his sweat, and the green corn has rotted before its young growth grew a beard. The sheep pen stands empty in the flooded field, and crows grow fat on the diseased flock. The nine-men's-morris board is filled up with mud, and the intricate mazes in the lush grass can't be made out, for lack of anyone treading them. Human mortals miss their proper winter here. No night now is blessed with hymn or carol. So the moon, the ruler of the tides, pale with anger, soaks all the air, so that illnesses from damp are everywhere. And through this disorder of the weather we see the seasons change: white-haired frosts fall into the fresh lap of the crimson rose; and on old Hiems' thin and icy crown a sweet-smelling garland of summer buds is set, as if in mockery. The spring, the summer, the fruitful autumn, the angry winter, all exchange their usual clothing; and the bewildered world, from this abundance, can no longer tell which is which. And this same brood of evils comes from our argument, from our disagreement; we are their parents and their source.

Do you amend it, then. It lies in you. Why should Titania cross her Oberon? I do but beg a little changeling boy To be my henchman.

Then you put it right. It's in your power. Why should Titania oppose her Oberon? All I ask for is one little stolen boy to be my page.

Set your heart at rest; The fairyland buys not the child of me. His mother was a vot’ress of my order, And in the spicèd Indian air, by night, Full often hath she gossip’d by my side; And sat with me on Neptune’s yellow sands, Marking th’ embarkèd traders on the flood, When we have laugh’d to see the sails conceive, And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind; Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait Following (her womb then rich with my young squire), Would imitate, and sail upon the land, To fetch me trifles, and return again, As from a voyage, rich with merchandise. But she, being mortal, of that boy did die; And for her sake do I rear up her boy, And for her sake I will not part with him.

Give up on that. The whole fairy kingdom couldn't buy the child from me. His mother was a votary of my order, and in the spiced Indian air, at night, she often chatted with me at my side; and she sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands, watching the merchant ships out on the water, and we laughed to see the sails grow pregnant and swell big-bellied with the playful wind; and she, with a pretty, gliding walk, would imitate them as she followed — her womb then rich with my young squire — and sail along on land to fetch me little presents, and come back again, as though from a voyage, loaded with goods. But she was mortal, and she died giving birth to that boy; and for her sake I am bringing up her boy, and for her sake I will not give him up.

How long within this wood intend you stay?

How long do you intend to stay in this wood?

Perchance till after Theseus’ wedding-day. If you will patiently dance in our round, And see our moonlight revels, go with us; If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts.

Maybe until after Theseus' wedding day. If you'll dance peacefully in our circle and watch our moonlight festivities, come with us. If not, keep away from me, and I'll stay clear of the places you frequent.

Give me that boy and I will go with thee.

Give me that boy and I'll go with you.

Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away. We shall chide downright if I longer stay.

Not for your whole fairy kingdom. Fairies, let's go. We'll have a full-scale row if I stay any longer.

Well, go thy way. Thou shalt not from this grove Till I torment thee for this injury.— My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememb’rest Since once I sat upon a promontory, And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath That the rude sea grew civil at her song And certain stars shot madly from their spheres To hear the sea-maid’s music.

Fine, off you go. You will not leave this grove until I have tormented you for this insult. — My gentle Puck, come here. You remember how I once sat on a headland and heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back singing with such sweet and harmonious breath that the rough sea grew calm at her song, and certain stars shot wildly from their spheres to hear the sea-maid's music.

I remember.

I remember.

That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not), Flying between the cold moon and the earth, Cupid all arm’d: a certain aim he took At a fair vestal, thronèd by the west, And loos’d his love-shaft smartly from his bow As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts. But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft Quench’d in the chaste beams of the watery moon; And the imperial votress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free. Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness. Fetch me that flower, the herb I showed thee once: The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid Will make or man or woman madly dote Upon the next live creature that it sees. Fetch me this herb, and be thou here again Ere the leviathan can swim a league.

At that very moment I saw — though you could not — Cupid flying fully armed between the cold moon and the earth. He took careful aim at a lovely virgin enthroned in the west, and shot his love-arrow sharply from his bow as if it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts. But I could see young Cupid's fiery arrow put out in the chaste beams of the watery moon; and the royal votary passed on, deep in virgin thought, untouched by love. Yet I noted where Cupid's arrow fell: it fell on a little western flower, milk-white before, now purple with love's wound, and girls call it love-in-idleness. Fetch me that flower, the plant I showed you once. Its juice laid on sleeping eyelids will make a man or a woman fall madly in love with the next living creature they see. Fetch me this plant, and be back here before the leviathan can swim a league.

I’ll put a girdle round about the earth In forty minutes.

I'll go right round the earth in forty minutes.

Having once this juice, I’ll watch Titania when she is asleep, And drop the liquor of it in her eyes: The next thing then she waking looks upon (Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, On meddling monkey, or on busy ape) She shall pursue it with the soul of love. And ere I take this charm from off her sight (As I can take it with another herb) I’ll make her render up her page to me. But who comes here? I am invisible; And I will overhear their conference.

Once I have this juice, I'll watch for Titania when she's asleep and drop the liquid of it into her eyes. Then the next thing she looks at when she wakes — whether it's a lion, a bear, a wolf, or a bull, an interfering monkey, or a busy ape — she will chase after it with all the passion of love. And before I remove this spell from her sight (as I can, with another plant) I'll make her hand her page over to me. But who's coming here? I'm invisible, and I'll listen in on their conversation.

I love thee not, therefore pursue me not. Where is Lysander and fair Hermia? The one I’ll slay, the other slayeth me. Thou told’st me they were stol’n into this wood, And here am I, and wode within this wood Because I cannot meet with Hermia. Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more.

I don't love you, so stop chasing me. Where are Lysander and lovely Hermia? I'll kill him; she is killing me. You told me they had slipped away into this wood, and here I am, going mad in this wood because I can't find Hermia. Away with you, get out of here, 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 pull me to you, you hard-hearted magnet — but you aren't pulling iron, because my heart is as true as steel. Give up your power to attract, and I'll 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?

Am I leading you on? Am I speaking sweetly to you? Or rather, don't I tell you in the plainest truth that I don't and can't 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 that's exactly why I love you more. I'm your spaniel; and, Demetrius, the more you beat me, the more I'll fawn on you. Just treat me as your spaniel — kick me, hit me, ignore me, lose me; only allow me, unworthy as I am, to follow you. What lower place could I beg for in your love — and yet it's a place of great honour to me — than to be treated the way you treat your dog?

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

Don't provoke the hatred in me any further; because I feel sick when I look at you.

And I am sick when I look not on you.

And I feel sick when I don't look at 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.

You damage your own modesty far too much by leaving the city and putting yourself into the hands of a man who doesn't love you, and trusting the chances of the night and the bad advice of a deserted place with the rich treasure 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?

Your goodness is my protection: because it isn't night when I can see your face, and so I don't think I'm in the night at all. Nor does this wood lack whole worlds of company, because you, as far as I'm concerned, are the entire world. So how can anyone say I'm alone when all the world is here looking at me?

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

I'll run away from you and hide myself in the bushes, and leave you to the mercy of wild animals.

The wildest hath not such a heart as you. Run when you will, the story shall be chang’d; 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 valour flies!

The wildest of them hasn't a heart like yours. Run whenever you like; the story will be turned around: Apollo runs away, and Daphne does the chasing; the dove hunts the griffin, the gentle deer hurries to catch the tiger. Useless hurrying, when cowardice chases and courage runs away!

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.

I won't stay to listen to your arguments. Let me go. Or if you follow me, don't doubt that I'll do you harm 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 woo’d, and were not made to woo.

Yes, in the temple, in the town, in the fields, you do me harm. Shame on you, Demetrius! The wrongs you do disgrace my whole sex. We can't fight for love the way men can. We ought to be courted, and weren't made to do the courting.

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

I'll follow you, and turn hell into heaven by dying at the hand I love so dearly.

Fare thee well, nymph. Ere he do leave this grove, Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love.

Goodbye, nymph. Before he leaves this grove, you will be running from him, and he will be begging for your love.

Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer.

Have you got the flower? Welcome back, wanderer.

Ay, there it is.

Yes, here it is.

I pray thee give it me. I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine. There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight; And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin, Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in. And with the juice of this I’ll streak her eyes, And make her full of hateful fantasies. Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove: A sweet Athenian lady is in love With a disdainful youth. Anoint his eyes; But do it when the next thing he espies May be the lady. Thou shalt know the man By the Athenian garments he hath on. Effect it with some care, that he may prove More fond on her than she upon her love: And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow.

Please give it to me. I know a bank where the wild thyme blooms, where oxlips and the nodding violet grow, completely canopied over with sweet honeysuckle, with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine. Titania sleeps there for part of the night, lulled among these flowers by dancing and delight; and there the snake sheds her patterned skin, a garment wide enough to wrap a fairy in. And with the juice of this I'll smear her eyes and fill her with hateful fantasies. You take some of it too, and search through this grove. A sweet Athenian lady is in love with a scornful young man. Put it on his eyes; but do it so that the next thing he sees will be the lady. You'll recognise the man by the Athenian clothes he's wearing. Do it carefully, so that he turns out more in love with her than she is with him. And make sure you meet me before the first cockcrow.

Fear not, my lord, your servant shall do so.

Don't worry, my lord, your servant will do it.