Of something nearly that concerns yourselves.
With duty and desire we follow you.
Exeunt all but LYSANDER and HERMIA
How now, my love! why is your cheek so pale?
How chance the roses there do fade so fast?
Belike for want of rain, which I could well
Beteem them from the tempest of my eyes.
Ay me! for aught that I could ever read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth;
But, either it was different in blood,—
O cross! too high to be enthrall’d to low.
Or else misgraffed in respect of years,—
O spite! too old to be engaged to young.