The lovers find one another under a moonlit confusion.

HELENA: Lo, she is one of this confederacy. Now I perceive they have conjoined all three to fashion this false sport.
HERMIA: I am amazed at your passionate words. I scorn you not. It seems that you scorn me.
LYSANDER: You are unkind, Demetrius. Be not so.
DEMETRIUS: I would I had your bond, for I perceive a weak bond holds you.
HELENA: Have you no modesty, no maiden shame, no touch of bashfulness?
HERMIA: What change is this, sweet love?
LYSANDER: Thy love? Out, tawny Tartar, out!
HERMIA: Do you not jest?
HELENA: O spite! O strange! We will have no more of this.
PUCK: Lord, what fools these mortals be.
