Now I but chide; but I should use thee worse,

If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep,

Being o'er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep,

And kill me too.

The sun was not so true unto the day

As he to me: would he have stolen away

From sleeping Hermia? I'll believe as soon

This whole earth may be bored and that the moon

May through the centre creep and so displease

Her brother's noontide with Antipodes.

It cannot be but thou hast murder'd him;

So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim.