What say you, Hermia? Be advised, fair maid: To you your father should be as a god, One that composed your beauties, yea, and one To whom you are but as a form in wax, By him imprinted and within his power To leave the figure or disfigure it. (I.i.).
So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord, Ere I will yield my virgin patent up Unto his Lordship, whose unwishèd yoke My soul consents not to give sovereignty. (I.i.)
O Hell, to choose love by another’s eyes! (I.i.)
If then true lovers have been ever crossed, It stands as an edict in destiny. (I.i.)
Sickness is catching. Oh, were favor so, Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go. (I.i.)