Hippolyta.
Four days will quickly steep themselves in night;
Four nights will quickly dream away the time;
And then the moon, like to a silver bow
New-bent in heaven, shall behold the night
Of our solemnities.
Theseus.
Of our solemnities. Go, Philostrate,
Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments;
Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth:
Turn melancholy forth to funerals;
The pale companion is not for our pomp.
[Exit Philostrate.
Hippolyta, I woo’d thee with my sword,
And won thy love, doing thee injuries;
But I will wed thee in another key,
With pomp, with triumph and with revelling.
Enter Egeus, Hermia, Lysander, and Demetrius.
Egeus.
Happy be Theseus, our renowned duke!
Theseus.
Thanks, good Egeus: what’s the news with thee?
Egeus.
Full of vexation come I, with complaint
Against my child, my daughter Hermia.
