Out, dog! out, cur! thou drivest me past the bounds Of maiden’s patience. Hast thou slain him, then? Henceforth be never number’d among men! O, once tell true, tell true, even for my sake! Durst thou have look’d upon him being awake, And hast thou kill’d him sleeping? O brave touch! Could not a worm, an adder, do so much? An adder did it; for with doubler tongue Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung.

You spend your passion on a misprised mood: I am not guilty of Lysander’s blood; Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell.

A privilege never to see me more. And from thy hated presence part I so: See me no more, whether he be dead or no. Exit.