My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, So flew’d, so sanded, and their heads are hung With ears that sweep away the morning dew; Crook-knee’d and dew-lapp’d like Thessalian bulls; Slow in pursuit, but match’d in mouth like bells, Each under each. A cry more tuneable Was never holla’d to, nor cheer’d with horn, In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly: Judge when you hear. But, soft! what nymphs are these?

My lord, this is my daughter here asleep; And this, Lysander; this Demetrius is; This Helena, old Nedar’s Helena: I wonder of their being here together.

No doubt they rose up early to observe The rite of May, and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity. But speak, Egeus; is not this the day That Hermia should give answer of her choice?