A Midsummer Night’s Dream

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Tomorrow night, when Phoebe doth behold
Her silver visage in the wat’ry glass,
Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass —
A time that lover’s slights doth still conceal —
Through Athen’s gates have we devised to steal.

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How now, spirit, wither wander you?

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Or in the beached margin of the sea
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind

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How now, mad spirit?
What nightrule now about this haunted grove?

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Hermia: Why, get you gone. Who is’t that hinders you?
Helena: A foolish heart that I leave here behind.

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Where are these lads? Where are these hearts?

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